Warband of the Forsaken Sons
by Zahariel
Summary: Horus Lupercal, Warmaster of Chaos, is dead, and the Traitor Legions run from the wrath of the loyalists. Amongst them, Commander Arken of the Sons of Horus gathers on his ship an army from the ranks of all renegade Legions, and begins to plan his vengence against the Imperium of Man ...
1. Chapter 1 : The Flight from Terra

This is my first fanfiction. This chapter is only the start of what I hope will be a serie of adventures for my band of psychopatic, treacherous monsters in ceramite armor. If you appreciate it, or notice inconsistences with canon (which, to be fair, are almost sure to happen given the source material I am working with), please inform me.

If you like it, please review !

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Hundred, thousands of warships fought in the skies of Terra. At the edge of the Sol system, the Warp was torn as the Thirteen and First Legions finally arrived to join the battle. Amidst the ruins of the Imperial Palace's outside defences, tens of thousands of Legionnaires screamed in anguish at the news that coursed through their vox-channels.

Horus Lupercal, the Warmaster, Primarch of the Sons of Horus and leader of the rebellion against the tyranny and lies of the Emperor, was dead, slain in battle by his own father. His Legion had been literaly shattered by it. Sons of Horus erred amidst the desolation, haggard, while Abaddon, First Captain of the Sixteenth Legion, launched a desperate attack on the _Vengeful Spirit _to reclaim the flagship from the loyalists' hands and with it, the body of his gene-sire. The rest of the Traitor Legions were desperate too, running to their own transports to leave the Throne World. Although they still numered in the millions, even without taking their mortal allies in the count, it was somehow obvious to them all. They _knew _the war was lost … or rather, that the Siege of Terra was lost.

Aboard the battle-cruiser _Hand of Ruin_,Commander Arken of the Sons of Horus felt his heart dying as news of the Warmaster's death were confirmed. He had heard Ezekyle's scream over the vox when the First Captain had found the Primarch's body. Now, on the screens of the command deck, he could see the flagship starting to turn away from the Throne World and running away.

_Running away_. If his thoughts had not been in such a turmoil already, that mere notion would have irked him. But he was beyond that point now, and it made a bitter tactical sense : the battle was lost. The had to leave and plan for survival now, with the Legions of Ultramar behind them. Later, they could plan for the future … once the shock that numbed their thoughts was lifted.

Oh, for sure the Sons of Horus would be blamed by the other Legions for running first, but it had all come down to a duel between the Emperor and his illuminated son, and they had lost.

_So this is defeat, _he thought. In two hundred years, this was the first time he tasted it. It didn't please him, but that displeasure was a dust in the wind compared to the crushing pain of his Primarch's demise.

_And this is how the Iron Hands, the Salamanders and the Blood Angels feel. No wonder they are so enraged now._

He had seen how other Astartes had reacted to their Primarch's death. They had all showed different reactions to it, but in the end, there were only two ways to react : break, or hate.

Well, he knew how _he _was going to react. He would see the Imperium torn down for this even if it took ten thousand years. Cold, icy hatred sprung in his soul, and he embraced it. He let it cool his mind and his fury, focusing on the future. The pain vanished, replaced by a terrible and frozen void.

Arken opened a channel with his troops on the surface. Half his company was still deployed on the ground, and he wasn't going to abandon his own brothers if it could be at all avoided.

'Damarion, do you hear me ?'

There was a blur of static and for a few seconds the Commander feared that his brothers on the world below had been lost, too. Then an answer came through, in a voice dripping with sorrow, despair, and _fear _:

'Commander ?'

'What is your situation, Captain ?!'

'We … we are near the walls of the Palace, sir.'

'Are there any members of the other Legions near your position ?'

'Yes, sir. Dozens of them. We were trying to breach the walls when … when …'

'Focus ! I need you to be focused if anything is to be salvaged from that disaster !'

He waited a few seconds, to give Damarion time to gather his wits. He hoped that the Captain would not break. He liked the man. He owed him his life several times, and Damarion owed him his own in return about twice the same number of times. Finally, the Son of Horus answered, his voice steady if still a little shaken.

' … Yes, sir.'

'Listen to me. The battle is lost, the Siege is over. We need to leave the system, as much as retreat repels us. It's panic up here, every ship for itself. Most likely, our cousins with you will be unable to get to their own space crafts. So you are going to give them a choice, brother. Tell them that either they die here, or they come with you back to the _Hand of Ruin _and leave the system with will depart as soon as the last engine is in the landing hangar, at the very second the gates are closed !'

'As you command !'

Arken cut the communication and turned to the ship's commander, a human male named Koldak, with short blond hair and eyes that were as dark as the void his ship sailed.

'Shipmaster, I need you to be ready to break for the Warp as soon as my brothers are back from the surface.'

The human nodded to him, his face set in stone. He understood what Arken had left silent : he had to keep the ship alive until then, and it would not be an easy feat as the relief fleet of the loyalists drew ever closer. The Commander opened another vox channel, this one used by the Sons of Horus aboard the _Hand of Ruin _:

'This is Commander Arken. Heed my words, brothers. I know the pain in your souls. The Warmaster, our father, has been taken from us.' Speaking the words aloud tore him apart, and he felt as if the ice within was going to shatter, but he held to his hate. 'There will be plenty of time for mourning and revenge later, but for now, you must stand ready. The servants of the False Emperor are here, and will do all they can to kill us in the name of their enslaver. Prepare yourself to repel any boarding action. We must hold on until our brothers on the surface are back with us, then we will leave this cursed system behind us.'

He left the channel open long enough to hear the affirmative answers of his brethren as his words brought them back from the sorrow into which they had been drowning. He had once had five hundred Astartes under his command, but these numbers had been harrowed down by the civil war, culminating with truly catastrophic losses during the Siege. Only half a hundred warriors remained on board, and when he had sent Damarion down after he himself had returned to the ship to heal his wounds and repair his equipment, he had sent the Captain down with another hundred of his brothers. If Damarion managed to bring members of the other Legions back with him, there would be more than enough space to accommodate them all, he mused bitterly. The _Hand of Ruin_ could host _thousands _of Astartes if needed, and with space to spare. It was a glorious ship, forged in the days before Isstvan by the members of the Adeptus Mechanicus who had sided with Horus. It presented several variations of the classic pattern of its kind, made to incorporate some of the secrets offered by Horus in return for the tech-priests' oaths. It had served the Sons of Horus well during the war, delivering fresh troops, human and Astartes, into the heart of battles to turn the tides against the False Emperor's lapdogs.

And if the Gods of the Warp that Lorgar had revealed to the Legion were willing to give him half a chance, he would make it do so again. Silently, Arken closed his eyes and recited one of the litanies that the Dark Apostles said drew the favour of the Gods. He was no psyker, but the teachings of the Seventeenth Legion told that the Gods did listen to all those who were worthy of their attention. Arken didn't share the fanatical devotion of the Word Bearers, but he had seen the power that dwelled in the Empyrean, and only a fool would try to deny such might.

Magnus the Red had tried to bend this power to his will. In his arrogance, he had believed himself to be master of its secrets. He had paid the price for his hubris, in the blood of his sons and the destruction of his homeworld. But the lesson he had been taught was also one for the rest of the Traitor Legions : do not rely too much on the Warp, and do not presume to control it. Still, considering the situation, Arken thought, a prayer could do no harm. His Primarch was dead, his Legion on the run, the war was lost. It would be impossible for the Octed to worsen it, safe by making him fail to escape, and that was already quite probable anyway.

'My Lord ?' said one of the serfs.

'What is it ?' asked Arken, shaking off the thoughts he had been dwelling upon.

'One of the enemy ships is closing in on us. It is launching boarding pots toward us.'

'Which Legion ?'

'Thirteen, my Lord.'

'The bastard sons of Guilliman,' groaned the Space Marine, 'coming to strike us in the back and claim the Imperium for their own liege. You know what to do. Me and my brothers will take care of those who pass through your barrage.'

Arken turned away from the command deck, tearing his eyes away from the image of Terra. As he started to walk the corridors of the ship to help defend it against the invaders, he knew, somehow, that this would be the last time he ever saw the cradle of humanity. Despite all that had happened this day, this cold certitude still troubled him.

But this wasn't the time to indulge such thoughts. There was killing to be done. Loyalists to slay. Time to gain. A fraction of the vengeance owed to claim.

'Let the galaxy burn,' whispered Arken of the Sons of Horus.

Damarion was aboard his Thunderhawk, alongside twenty more of his brothers who had survived the killing fields on the world below. His green armor was covered by the marks of war. His bolter hung at his side, his last clip loaded inside, half-empty. His chainsword had broken in the guts of an Imperial Fist, and he had left it there. In a way, he was very much the image of his Legion at this moment.

The gunship's flight wasn't a tranquil one. Many of the transports had been destroyed before the order to retreat had come, and those that remained were badly overcrowded. The Legionaries could hear the sound of lasers and ammunition of all size being shot all around their craft while the pilot brought them up to the relative safety of the _Hand of Ruin_. Standing in the cockpit, Damarion saw another of the gunships burst apart under the shells of the Palace's defences. It had born the colors of the Fourteenth Legion, and carried about thirty of Mortarion's sons, warriors who were now lost forever.

The sight unnerved him. His officer commander had ordered him to gather and bring as many Astartes to the ship as possible, and he felt that these deaths were a failure from his part. It wasn't logical, it didn't make sense, but Damarion's duty to his Commander were about the only thing left to the Captain of the Sons of Horus now.

Still, there were many other transports directed toward the battle-cruiser. Hundred of thousands of Space Marines from the Traitor Legions had been sent on Terra, and many of them had lost contact with their home ship or learned news of its destruction. Gathering them had been as easy as sending a message through the vox; they had swarmed to the hope of succour he had offered. There were other ships, of course, but apparently Commander Arken had been the only one to welcome members of other Legions than his own.

He was violently tossed around when the mortal pilot moved to avoid certain destruction, and clung to the walls in an effort not to fall down and crush the frail human. Their survival hang entirely on the serf's skill, and it wasn't a pleasant situation. They had started the rebellion because they refused to bow down to inferior mortals, yet now they depended on one to escape the consequences of their actions. The bitter irony wasn't lost to Damarion.

The next moments would be blurred in the Captain otherwhise eidetic memory for the rest of his life. He never knew how, but finally, they were aboard the _Hand of Ruin_, alive. He could heard the chatter over the vox : the ship was under attack, by boarders from the hated Thirteenth. He turned to leave the Thunderhawk and join the battle to cleanse the ship of their presence, then stopped. He turned his armored head to the mortal, and asked :

'What's your name, human ?'

'Perseus Kilaiz, lord,' answered the pilot. He looked exhausted and haggard, on the verge of just falling unconscious.

Damarion nodded in acknowledgment.

'You did well, Perseus. I will remember your actions if we survive this day.'

'Thank you, lord.'

When his bolter shot the first Ultramarine in the head, piercing through the Legionarie's helmet and spreading his brain on the ship's walls, Damarion realized that this was the first time he had killed a warrior of the Thirteenth Legion. Were he not still under the shock of the Warmaster's death, no doubt he would have relished the experience, but as it was, he only felt a bitter satisfaction at enacting revenge against the loyalists, as small as it was. Taking his victim's chainsword was a little more satisfaying. Perhaps using it against its former wielder's brethren would be even more so.

But there weren't any more Ultramarine around. The squad he and his brothers had crossed was entirely destroyed, slain by the common effort of the Legionaries who had chosen to follow him. When he had come out of the Thunderhawk, he had seen hundred of other Astartes on the deck, and more crafts were entering. All nine of the rebel Legions, it seemed, were represented aboard the _Hand of Ruin_. Hunting the other Ultramarines aboard the battle-cruiser would be easy … but he could not relent in his focus. The Sons of Ultramar, despite their arrogance, were still formidable foes, and they could do much damage before they were all slain.

Damarion considered the most likely targets of the boarders. The engines, and the command deck. If they could just prevent the ship from escaping, the rest of their fleet would take care of the rest, even if they didn't survive it themselves. The Son of Horus didn't doubt for a second that the Ultramarines would be ready to sacrifice themselves if they could take the ship with them.

Which one, then ? The engines or the deck ?

'Damarion ?'

'Lord Arken ?'

'So you survived,' said the Commander through the vox. 'Good, I was beginning to worry you didn't make it. Koldak just told me that we had to run _now _or we will never escape. I have given him my permission to close the landing decks.'

' … Were there any gunships still outside ?'

'I didn't ask him. Get to the engines, brother, and bring as many of the other rescapees as you can. Adept Merchurion just voxed me that they were under attack and needed reinforcement, and I am - ' the voice of the Commander was cut by a volley of bolter fire, quickly followed by the sound of ceramite armor and flesh bursting – 'otherwhise engaged at the moment. Go!'

The communication ended, and Damarion looked around him. He saw his brothers and cousins searching the corpses of their foes and friends alike, looting the dead for ammunition and replacement for broken or lost weapons. Realizing that his own bolter was still almost empty, the Captain took the clips from the Ultramarine he had killed.

_Is this what we are reduced to, then ? A gathering of looters and plunderers ?_

He pushed the thought aside, and focused on the task at hand. The engines were heavily defended, precisely because they were such an important target. Any force mighty enough to force the Adept to call the Legionaries to his help would be quite a challenge, and not one he could overcome with the help of only the Sons of Horus that were in his immediate vicinity.

Luckily, the members of the Sixteenth Legion weren't the only Astartes in sight.

The engine room of the _Hand of Ruin _was located deep in the entrails of the ship. It was vast, several hundred of meters across, but filled with humming engines, cables and control panels. Every single piece of machinery aboard the battle-cruiser was controlled from here, the techo-priests and servitors working endlessly to ensure the commands from the deck were relayed as quickly as possible to the machine-spirit of the ship. Right now, it was filled with the sound of weapons being used and the screams of those who fight for their life and that which they are sworn to protect.

Techno-Adept Merchurion was displeased by the turn of events. The representant of the True Adeptus Mechanicus wasn't usually a being prone to the act of feeling emotions, as was fitting of a member of the Machine Cult, but even he was angered by what had come to pass.

Before the start of the civil war, before the Warmaster tore apart the chains that the False Emperor had placed on the Omnissiah's true servants, Merchurion had been a lowly apprentice of the holy order on one of the forge-worlds. But when the time had come to choose sides, his master had refused to embrace the truth offered by the Warmaster and rejected the gifts of knowledge and freedom. Merchurion had done the logical thing : he had killed the heretic, and led his brethren to the glorious side of Horus' rebellion. For that, he had been rewarded well, being given the rank of techno-adept and command of the _Hand of Ruin's _Mechanicus staff. His responsabilities were many, but he was willing to bear them all for the Omnissiah's glory.

Just like his standing among his peers, Merchurion's aspect had also evolved a lot since the civil war had started. Most of his flesh had been replaced by the blessings of the Machine. He was as tall as an Astartes in full power armor, but considerably thinner. Eight mechadendrites emerged from the cloak that hid his body, equiped with all manners of tools and weapons, and he had replaced his face with a mask carefully crafted to evoke the image of one of the Empyrean's creatures the Warmaster had brought to his service. That one gesture may have been a bit vain, he admitted it to himself, but he believed the righteous fear it inspired into his lessers pushed them to work harder for the Omnissiah's and the Warmaster's glory.

However, it also quite plainly indicated his rank and, in the unlikely event of an assault, made him an obvious target. He had never considered that side of things before, but the chainsword pushed through his torso was making him rethink the wisdom of his augmentics very quickly.

There was some pain, of course, but it was more psychological than real, as he had had his pain nerves removed from what remained of his flesh long ago. No, more than anything, he was _annoyed_. The Ultramarine who had stabbed him was member of a greater force, and his kinsmen were rampaging all over the sacred engines, desecrating them with their crude weapons. He looked at the Space Marine, and hissed :

'The Warmaster is dead. The battle is lost. And now, your kind are vandalizing _my _ship.'

'You think I care about that, traitor ?' spat the son of Ultramar. Merchurion considered the question for two hundredth of second – a long time for one as augmented as him – and answered :

'No, probably not.'

Then he used his fourth mechadendrite's built-in plasma gun to vaporize the loyalist's head. Two others of the members pushed the body away, and he used his own arms – unlike other techo-priests, he firmly believed that all parts of one's body should be used in service of the Omnissiah, not just those replaced by His blessing – to tear the chainsword from his metallized chest. The weapon came off with a screeching sound and fell on the ground. Ignoring the gaping wound, Merchurion began to open fire on the other Ultramarines, supporting the efforts of his skitarii warriors. The engines were defended by three scores of the cybernetic soldiers, but they were no match for a Legionary individually, and almost fourty of the loyalists had found their way to this part of the ship. This was a losing battle they were fighting, Merchurion thought, but if they could hold long enough, then …

'Death to the False Emperor !'

A warcry interrupted Merchurion's thoughts, and he saw a warrior wearing the livery of the Sons of Horus and the markings of a captain over his battered armor rush into the engine room and charge the Ultramarines, followed by a handful of his brothers. And with them were warriors of the other True Legions. The techno-adept saw three Devastators from the Iron Warriors, a dozen World Eaters screaming at the loyalists while waving their chainaxes at them, six members of the sacred brotherhood of the Gal Vorbak using the morphing ability they were alone to possess amongst the Word Bearers …

There were others, pouring into the room, firing and screaming at the Ultramarines. The loyalists weren't fazed by the sudden change of the situation : as one, half of their numbers turned to face the traitors, while the rest redoubled their efforts in making the engines inoperable. A worthy effort, but a futile one. Most likely, the Ultramarines knew it was so. But the Thirteenth Legion had always been stubborn, ever more so since Calth and the Five Hundred Worlds had burned at the hands of Lorgar's sons.

The two groups of Astartes collided, and for yet another time since the civil war had begun, brother killed brother. Damarion's stolen chainsword clashed with that of a sergeant, and they traded a few blows before the Son of Horus managed to rise the bolter pistol in his free hand and shot his opponent in the face. The round didn't pierce the loyalist's helmet, but it sent him back, and Damarion used that distraction to ram his sword through both the Ultramarine's hearts.

Blood sprayed out of the wound, coloring Damarion's armor. The coppery smell was sweet to the Captain's nostrils – this was the scent of revenge. Every drop of blood was a blow against the slaves of the Imperium. From the moment when his blade pierced the flesh to the instant the Ultramarine's body hit the ground, Damarion's grief at his Primarch's death was replaced by a feeling of savage joy and ecstasy.

Then the Ultramarine was dead, and the pain and sorrow were back. Damarion winced under the twin burden, but now he knew how to make them disappear. He just had to kill, and kill, and kill.

The vision of the Captain tainted of red, and he charged the remaining foes, bellowing a challenge to the sons of Guilliman. He ripped apart an Ultramarine who had been about to behead a Night Lord, then impaled another one who had been trading blow with an Alpha Legionnaire, leaving the blade through his corpse. Still screaming in mindless anger, Damarion picked up the chainaxe of a fallen World Eater, and returned to the slaughter.

The coalition of rebels lacked the unity and coordination of the Ultramarines, but they more than made up in numbers and ferocity. They tore the group of defenders apart, taking only a few casualties as they did, then attacked the rest of Guilliman's sons.

A few bloody minutes later, the engine room was clear of enemies again. The Captain of the Sons of Horus walked toward Merchurion. He was covered in blood from head to toe, and his voice was boiling with barely-contained emotions. At the sight, Merchurion was once again thankful that his augmentics spared him such distractions from the Omnissiah's blessed work.

'Adept,' he greeted. 'Are the engines functionnable ?'

'By the grace of the Omnissiah, they are, Captain Damarion. I thank you for your timely arrival.'

'You can thank me by ensuring the ship has the power it will need to get us out of here alive.'

'I shall do my best,' replied Merchurion while sligthly bowing.

Damarion nodded and turned back. As he walked to the exit, he said :

'Oh, and, Adept ?'

'Yes ?'

'Ask some servitors to strip these bastards of all their equipment before you dispose of their bodies. We will need it after this is over.'

Arken pulled his sword out of the Ultramarine Captain. That had been the last one. Looking around him, he noticed that he was the last man standing. Over twenty Ultramarines had attempted to storm the command bridge, but none of them breathed anymore. The corpses of Arken's bodyguards, all six of them, laid on the ground at the side of their foes'. The sight didn't cause any reaction in Arken's heart, just as the killing hadn't provided him any satisfaction. He had expected to be enraged in the battle – indeed, that was how his bodyguards had acted. Instead, it had just felt … cold. He didn't feel anything. The cold had dulled the pain of his father's loss, but it had also, apparently, stripped him from his inner fire, if not of his efficiency in battle.

Arken thought that he should be troubled by this, but he couldn't think of why.

The ship shook as it was hit by another salvo, and Arken managed to remain on his feet, albeit barely. Seconds later, someone hailed him through the vox. Recognizing the rune as that of the shipmaster, he blink-clicked on it and opened the channel.

'Commander ? Are you alright ?'

'Yes, invaders that threatened the bridge have been dealt with. Did you receive any report from Damarion ?'

'Affirmative, lord. He and some of our … guests from the other Legions have cleansed the engine room. They are now hunting the remnants of the boarding forces through the corridor. I called you to warn you that we are about to enter warpspace.'

'That isn't something you should tell me alone, shipmaster. Why did you specifically call me ?'

There was a pause, as if Koldak was uncertain of how to explain his action.

'My lord … the Navigators have told me that the Warp is in frenzy. They think that whatever the Warmaster was doing that allowed us to sail the storms in relative safety stopped the instant of his … his death. This is going to be very dangerous.'

'It will keep the loyalists from following us, then. Do it, shipmaster. Get us away from here.'

'The Navigators don't know if they will be able to set a path, my lord … and even if they could, where should we go ?'

Arken pondered the question for a second. Where could they go ? Where would they be safe from the Imperium's wrath ? There were entire sectors loyal to the Warmaster's cause, but they would be crushed under the Imperial might quickly. The galaxy would still burn in war for decades, for centuries before the Imperium could finally claim it had won the war, but he had to think ahead, to plan for the centuries it would take to build a force able to tear down the monolithic empire. Was there any place in the galaxy where …

Of course. There was one such place. A place where the followers of the False Emperor would never dare to set foot, a place where the Traitor Legions had allies that could help them rebuilt their strength and prepare for their vengeance. In all the galaxy, only one place had been out of reach from the Great Crusade.

It would be a dangerous journey and an even more dangerous place to live in, but for their failure, they had no other choice.

'Tell the Navigators to sail toward the warp anomaly at the north of the galaxy, shipmaster.'

There was a grim determination in the Traitor Marine's voice as he repeated :

'Tell them to bring us to the Eye of Terror.'


	2. Chapter 2 : Serixithar's Offer

And here comes the second chapter. I thank Matt and Death's Watcher for their encouraging reviews, and I will see you again at the bottom of the page for a few explanations.

WARNING : minor spoilers for the Horus Heresy novels. Nothing very big, only references to events that occur in the books, but you are warned.

Oh, and I don't own Warhammer 40000, of course.

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The Warp roared and raged, the terrible entities that dwelled within infuriated by the Warmaster's death and the failure of the rebellion. Thousands of ship sailed its currents, running from their pursuers. Sometimes, some of the renegades would leave the general direction of the exode, seeking to hide in forgotten corners of the Imperium, or believing they could keep ravaging the galaxy despite their defeat. They were soon proved wrong, however, as ships of the hunting horde would turn to pursue them, confident that the rest of the retribution fleet would be more than enough to deal with the main traitor fleet. Most of those splinters would be caught and destroyed, in a long campaign of cleansing that would take decades but would ultimately see the Imperium triumphant.

The Traitor Legions and their allies were preys now. Those very warriors who had freely rampaged across the stars for all the duration of the Horus Heresy were now reduced to fugitives. Had they turned to face their enemies, they could have defeated them; but no shipmaster trusted another in that band of betrayers. How could you trust someone who had already broken the most important oath, especially if you were a traitor yourself ?

And so they ran. All the way across the galaxy, driven to it by the whispers of the creatures that had brought them to the war in the first place. There, the voices said, they would be safe from the Imperium's retribution. There, they would find allies, weapons, _power_. Scores of ships were lost to the storm, their inhabitants consumed by servants of those powers they were now forced to embrace or die. Others managed to survive, though those were changed forever by the ordeal.

The _Hand of Ruin _was but one of these ships. Its master, Arken of the Sons of Horus, had ordered it to go to the same place as the rest of the Legions, but it was of his own volition. No daemon had whispered it into his heart. The Eye of Terror _was _the only place they would be safe from the Imperium, even if they wouldn't be safe from their own comrades or the predators of the Warp.

Ironically, the _Hand of Ruin _never reached its intended destination. The tides of the Great Ocean spirited the ship away from the rest of the escaping fleet. The Navigators tried to keep their cap, but the Warp's currents were too strong, and soon it was all they can do to ride the tempest, trying their best to prevent the ship from being torn apart by the hellish energies unleashed against its Geller Field.

Soon, however, even their best efforts weren't enough, and the battle for the _Hand of Ruin_ and the souls of all its crew began.

For months, the Space Marines on board fought against the nightmarish creatures that passed through the cracks of the Geller Field, united in purpose by their survival instinct and in action by the will of Arken. The battles never ended, the warriors had to rotate the order into which they fought so that some of them would have a chance to rest for a few hours before returning to battle. There wasn't even a moment of peace; always there would be a new front opening in the struggle for the _Hand of Ruin_. From the commanding deck or directly on the front lines, Arken commanded all the Astartes, sending them where they were needed, coordinating their efforts and actions. Not once during all the terrible journey did the Commander rest. Even the three Navigators aboard the ship had been forced to relay each other in their efforts to ride the storm, but Arken didn't seem to need to sleep anymore. He dedicated himself entirely to the safety of the _Hand of Ruin_, inspiring the rest of the crew by his own actions. In another life, his deeds during the exode would have been celebrated for centuries, documented and archived as great examples of the Astartes' fortitude. But now, no one outside of the _Hand of Ruin _would ever know of it. He went on and on, shrugging off the questions and worries of his brothers. He himself didn't know how he was still standing, but it didn't matter to him. In the cold that had taken over his heart, and was still getting worse with every passing hour, very few things still mattered.

But despite the lack of emotions that consumed him, when the message came, it surprised him.

'Lord Arken, the Warp just … calmed. The Geller Field is stable.'

For a few seconds, the Commander of the Sons of Horus didn't know what to do. They had been fighting for so long, it seemed an eternity had passed, that they had been fighting all of their existence. And who knew, considering the way time flowed in the Warp, perhaps they had. Finally, he said :

'Bring us into realspace, Koldak. Let us see where we have ended up.'

The _Hand of Ruin _tore the veil between reality and nightmare, and emerged inside a system with a dying star and an handful of planets that were little more than giant rocks. Scanning the skies for comparison with the star charts had revealed that they were now far in the galactic East from Terra, beyond the Warp anomaly known as the Maelstrom. The system itself had a name, too, but it was a meaningless string of numbers and letters and Arken didn't bother himself listening to it. Examining the relative positions of the stars had also revealed that almost a decade had passed in realspace since the end of the Siege of Terra.

The ship had been wounded by its flight through the Immaterium : great slashes ornated its hull, impact marks were omnipresent, and many parts of it had mutated into new shapes, the metal twisting under the influence of the Warp. Still, Merchurion affirmed that the ship could be repaired with the resources on board, and was still flight-able if they needed to run again. The ship placed itself in orbit around the third world, to allow its exhausted crew the rest it deserved.

Alone in the strategium, Arken was savoring the sensation of tranquility. Almost all the crew had fallen inconscious the moment they had emerged, but he had found that he was as fresh as he had been since their journey had begun.

He was reading damage reports, inventories and other files about what they had to work with now. He had glossed over the stores of ammunition : they were low, but they had the means to build a forge for ressuplying on board, and preliminary scans seemed to indicate that some of the rocks of this forsaken system contained ore that could be used for that losses in crew were more damaging, but they still had enough mortals to fully operate the ship. All the human troops that had been on the _Hand of Ruin_, however, had been wiped out by the daemons.

Arken took up another data-slate, the one who interested him the most. It was a compilation of reports that indicated the state of the Astarte forces that now called the ship home. Though they came from different Legions that had had their differents during their long history, even before the civil war, all Space Marines on the ship had forged bonds of brotherhood while battling for their very souls. Almost every Astarte had saved the life of any of the others at least once, and even if most remained with their gene-brothers, there was almost no tension between Legions. That was a small miracle in itself, thought Arken. If the rest of the fleet had made it to the Eye of Terror, there was little doubt that things would be very different there.

The Commander looked at the numbers at the bottom of the rolling text :

Alpha Legion : 92

Death Guard : 81

Emperor's Children : 83

Iron Warriors : 204

Night Lords : 113

Sons of Horus : 217

Thousand Sons : 22

World Eaters : 79

Word Bearers : 188

The numbers hid the complexity and diversity of the force under Arken's command. The Word Bearers, for instance, had nine members of the Gal Vorbak remaining, the others being rank and field battle-brothers. A total of forty-seven Terminator Armors were spread across the different Legions, and twenty-three of those needed repairs before they could be put to use again. Merchurion had had to scrap six more who were too damaged to be salvaged for spare parts. Arken suspected that if he had still been able of such a feat, the techno-adept would have wept at such a 'desecration'.

Without counting the Thousand Sons, who were all able to wield the power of the Warp, there were fourteen Librarians on board. They had been more numerous at the start of the journey, but while their abilities made them the greatest threat to the daemons it also made them the most tempting targets. The psykers had gathered together with the Thousand Sons, relaying each other to keep their mental shields up at all times to prevent possession.

They had no Dreadnought, though they had recovered the wreckage of several from Terra. Merchurion would see if they could be reused, but they weren't the priority right now. The transports the rescued Astartes had managed to bring on the Thunderhawks – Rhinos and Land Raiders – were also in dire need of repairs. So they had no heavy support at all.

Still, this was a force to be reckoned with. During the Great Crusade, entire civilizations had been conquered with half less Space Marines. With it, Arken could inflict terrible damage upon the Imperium. It would take time to reforge this splintered coalition into an efficient fighting force, even with the blooming brotherhood the warriors now shared, but once they were able to work together, to combine the individual specialities of their Legions toward a common objective …

'Lord Arken ? We are picking up a transmission.'

The message stopped his visions of grandeur and destruction at once. One of the officers had still been awake, as he had ordered a skeleton crew to remain on duty at all time, just in case. It hadn't been easy to force the few men and women to stay awake for a few hours more, but enough stimulants and threats had managed the trick.

'Did the Imperials find us ?!'

'No, sir. It … it's coming from the planet.'

Arken relaxed for a second, before realizing what the second part of the transmission meant.

'Wait. I thought this system was uninhabited ?'

'It is, lord. The scanners are formal : no life is possible, and we aren't picking up any sign of artificial environment. But the message comes from there.'

'Is it still being transmitted ?'

'Yes, my lord.'

'Let me listen to it.'

There was a blur of static, and then a voice that was impossibly clear given the distance of the transmission spoke in Arken's ear. The voice was deep, even more so than that of a Space Marine, and was dripping with alienness. The Son of Horus felt his skin crawl.

_Warp-craft_, thought Arken. Even now that they were outside of the Empyrean, it had followed them. The message merely confirmed his opinion.

_' … to me, lost children of the gods. Long have I waited for you here, guiding you to this place through the Great Ocean. You have suffered much, but you have endured and proved that you are worthy. I will ease your grief and grant you power beyond your wildest dreams, power enough to claim the vengeance that is rightfully yours, power enough to avenge your fathers. I am the Tear Drinker, the Harbinger of Sorrow, the Destroyer of Kings. I am Serixithar. Come to me, lost children of the gods …'_

The message looped, over and over. Arken took a few minutes to listen to it in detain, piecing together what he knew of the situation. There was a daemon on the world below. And apparently, it was responsible for their presence here. Or at least it wanted them to believe it was. The Commander had faced too many warp-born in the last months to trust any word coming from them. They had lost too many Astartes to the lies whispered by the creatures who had boarded the ship. He had seen it himself, several times : good warriors, veteran of Isstvan, who had endured the Siege of Terra, and yet were deceived like gullible children by the lies of daemons hiding their horrific nature under seductive appearances.

The lies hadn't worked on him. It was as if he could see right through them, to the rot behind the glitter. Daemons were liars, it was in their nature. Only the blood-soaked, horned ones didn't hide their intentions – to kill and kill and kill for their lord and master. The daemon on that insignificant rock hadn't claimed that it wanted to kill them all and take their skulls, so it belonged to the 'deceiver' category.

But it _may _be truthful when it said it was responsible for bringing them here, and if that was the case, then they had to get down and meet it. Arken turned the facts a few times in his mind, and came to the same conclusion each time.

'Officer,' he said through the vox. 'Can you send a reply on the same frequency this message is using ?'

'I … _think _I can, lord. But it isn't a natural message, so …'

'I understand. Just put my words on the correct frequency, I am sure whatever is sending will get them.'

There was a pause, and Arken heard the officer he had been speaking to shout at someone else – probably a vox operator who had been asleep at his post. Then, the officer said :

'We are ready, lord. Your next words will be transmitted at the same frequency.'

The Son of Horus took a deep breath, then whispered in his vox :

_'We are coming.'_

There was a moment of silence, then the voice of the officer came back :

'Sir ? The transmission from the planet has stopped.'

'Then it means the responsible got my reply. Did you get a location on the signal before it stopped ?'

'Well, yes, lord, although given the nature of the message, it is probably …'

'A trap ? Yes, I know. But I doubt it is the kind of trap you are thinking of, officer.'

Organizing the planetfall of a thousand Astartes was a logistic nightmare at the best of times. It was necessary to supply all of them with ammunition and equipment for the expedition. Briefings and tactical maps had to be sent to the officers, who would share the information to their battle-brothers. Finally, the aircrafts had to be coordinated to allow the best deployment.

They had no actual stock of ammunition beyond what Merchurion had stored in his forges, what the Astartes carried on themselves and the loot from the Ultramarine boarders. Information about the landing zone was foggy at best, and the hierarchy of the warband was something to laugh at. The Astartes onboard the _Hand of Ruin _had broken down in packs, members of each Legion staying together. Each pack had a leader, at least, and all of them would obey Arken's orders. The nightmarish journey had made sure that they would follow him; after all, had he not successfully led them out of the very maw of Hell ?

The different Legions on board had a grudging respect for each other, yes, but apart from the Librarians, there was no pack made of mixed blood. It made sense tactically, as the Space Marines were used to fight with their own battle-brothers and the ways of war varied greatly from one Legion to another, but it wasn't good for the stability and the morale of their group of exiles.

In spite of all that, Arken managed to order a planetfall and carry it out without any loss of material, or worse, Astartes. The aircrafts had been repaired quickly by Merchurion's servitors, but the techno-adept had been clear that they weren't to be used in actual combat. So, to prevent the precious machines to be damaged if … _when _things turned to a battle, Arken had ordered his brothers and cousins to land five kilometers away from the signal's point of emission. Any further than that, he had reasonned, and whatever damaged the ships would most probably kill them all anyway.

For a while, Arken had considered leaving a small force of Astartes onboard, but he had abandonned it quickly. If the ship was attacked by Imperial forces while they were on the ground, then better he had all his troops with him rather than on the battered ship, where they wouldn't be enough to repel an all-out loyalist assault anyway. Besides, there was always the risk that they would run with the ship and leave him stranded here. The risk was slim, of course, but it was even slimmer if there were only serfs aboard. The mortals wouldn't dare to betray him, for the very simple reason that without the Astartes, they would be entirely defenceless. He could focus on the purpose of his presence on that little ball of rock : meeting a daemon.

He descended from the Thunderhawk, hearing Damarion speak with the pilot, a mortal wearing an isolated suit with whom the Son of Horus had apparently some sense of comradship, as unlikely as such a thing was, and set foot upon the world. His helmet screen warned him that the planet was unsuitable for life, its atmosphere not sufficient to allow even the most basic lichens to thrive. The crew had warned him about that – it was one of the few pieces of information their damaged auspex had been able to pick up – and he had made clear to the Legionaries that they were to keep their armor void-sealed at all time. Luckily, those whose armor had been deprived of that function had already repaired it, as void-sealing was the only thing protecting them from some of the daemons' gas weapons.

Arken looked around him as his brothers, led by Damarion, deployed around him. The Captain and the rest of his squad had taken over as Arken's bodyguards. They wore the Terminator Armor of those who had fallen at their master's side during the boarding of the Ultramarines. During the journey through the Warp, they had quickly mastered the heavy set of armor, and had protected Arken well. The Commander himself didn't wear the same armor as his bodyguards, preferring the standard power armor. It gave him more flexibility, something he believed a leader should always have on the field of battle.

The world was … bland. An asteroid in all but the sheer size of it. Rock, as far as the eye could see, with mountains made of more rock at the horizon.

The thousand Astartes he had brought with him on that worthless planet were completing the planetfall. He could hear shouts and curses on the vox, as the Thunderhawks did their best to avoid crashing into each other. Once he was sure they were all finished, he started to walk, gesturing for Damarion and the others to follow him.

The rest of the Sons of Horus fell in line behind them, and the rest of the Legionaries soon followed. Marching was one of the few things that all Legions did the same way, after all.

The procession lifted a cloud of dust in its wake, and Arken thought that he would need to look at those who had been forced to be at the back of the column for signs of anger. Astartes were supposed to be able to endure walking through the dust risen by others' boots, but there were a lot of things about Astartes that weren't as they were supposed to be. Horus' rebellion had amply proved that.

They marched in silence, without any communication on the vox. Arken had ordered it so, but it was reassuring to see that they actually obeyed him, even on something as apparently trivial as keeping communications at a minimum.

Five kilometers weren't any distance to a Space Marine, and they arrived at their destination a few minutes later. They were at the base of one of the planet's mountains, in front of an opening in the wall of rock. The hole was big enough for ten Astartes to walk through side by side, and was clearly unnatural in origin. They were too smooth, as if they had been cut with a laser and then polished by an army of slaves. Arken opened a vox-channel and commanded for the Librarians to come over.

The psykers had been just a little behind him in the column. The majority of them wore the colours of the Thousand Sons, but they were others mixed with them : Arken spotted the livery of his own Legion, as well as that of the Night Lords, Word Bearers, Alpha Legion … In fact, all Legions aboard the _Hand of Ruin _except for the World Eaters and the Death Guard. The last psykers among the World Eaters had died in the war for the Five Hundred Worlds – though he didn't know the details, it was rumoured that their own brothers had hunted them down, but it could be just slander.

As for the Death Guard … Mortarion had never trusted psykers, and had made sure none of them received his gene-seed after he took command of his Legion. Those already incorporated had suffered … accidents long before the start of the civil war. No outright purge, at least none Arken was aware of, but things like being assignated to the wars with the highest casualty rates, or reinforcements arriving just a little bit too late. All in all, considering the tension caused at Nikea, it was probably best that no son of Mortarion joined a group so dominated by the Thousand Sons.

The psykers were surrounding a black case, kept levitating by their common will. Three meters long, one meter large, the case contained something Arkenn felt they may need before this was all over.

Arken greeted the son of Magnus that led the group of psykers. Clad in the armor of a Captain of the Fifteenth Legion, Asim was a member of the Corvidae, those of the Thousand Sons that specialised in divining the future. He carried with him a staff of polished silver, atop of which hung the skull of a creature that Arken couldn't identify. The bones looked like they could have belonged to a Legionary … but they were horribly distorted, as if they had been merged with a canine's own skull.

The Commander had seen Asim use that staff during their journey, blasting daemons apart the second they materialised in the ship. He had also seen him put a bolt in the head of one of his own brothers, when he had been taken over by a warp-born, before anyone else noticed the change. If the corpse hadn't turned to dust like it had, Asim would have been the one suspected of possession. He had known it, but he hadn't known that the corpse would prove his action necessary, yet he had done it without hesitation. Arken felt he could trust the Space Marine, at least in matters regarding the Warp.

' Asim. What can you tell me ?'

The psyker turned toward the cave, and stood, motionless, for a few seconds. Blue sparks ran on his armour and staff as he focused his gift to peer into the maw of the earth. When they vanished, he looked back at Arken :

'There is a powerful presence in this cave, Awakened One,' he said, using the title that the Legionaries of the other Legions had given him. He hadn't tried to suppress its use; he didn't have any reason to. Asim continued : 'It _is _a dweller of the Great Ocean, that much I am sure of.'

'How can it be able to maintain its presence ? Is this planet touched by the Warp ?'

He left out the real question, _if this is the case, why in the Horus' name didn't you warn me?_Asim shook his head.

'While it is true that most denizens of the Great Ocean are unable to manifest in the Materium for any extended period of time outside of worlds already claimed by the Warp, there are some who are able to sustain their existence indefinitely, until they choose to return to the Great Ocean or are destroyed. Of course, only the most potent of daemons are capable of such a feat, and not even all of them. There is another criteria to this ability, but we do not know what with certitude. This is what is going on here. A very powerful daemon, somehow possessing a link with the Materium strong enough to wait for us to come here.'

'Has it been here for long, then ?'

'This area is tainted by its presence. Now that I know its aura, I can see it. It has been here for _months_, Arken. Possibly even before … before the Siege ended.'

Arken felt a dangerous anger rise in him.

'Are you telling me that this … _thing _knew about the result of the war beforehand ?'

_Are you telling me that the warp-born knew my father was going to die, and didn't do anything to prevent it ?_

'Who knows ?' Asim shrugged. 'The Warp doesn't follow the same rules as this plane, brother. Time flows very differently there, not only slower or faster but even in reverse. That daemon could come from ten thousand years in the future and try to alter the course of events to suit its own agenda … or it could be as you said. Or we could have spend longer in the Warp that we think, and it arrived here long after we fled. We have no way to know except asking it directly and taking whatever lie it gives us in answer at face value.'

There was a bitterness in Asim's voice that prevented Arken from digging deeper into the Libarian's mysteries. Everyone knew that the Thousand Sons had only escaped destruction at the Space Wolves' hands thanks to their Primarch, Magnus, who himself had had to make some kind of bargain with the Octed to save what few of his sons remained. The Space Marine was entitled to feel bitter about any dealing with the warp-born. Arken tried to soften his voice :

'Do not worry, brother. I have no intention of blindly believing whatever that creature has to tell us.'

Asim slightly bowed his head in acceptance, although Arken felt that he wasn't reassured at all. He returned with the rest of his coven, and a thousand renegade Astartes walked into the cavern.

The tunnel went down, deep into the planet. It circled and turned, forming a spiral, the diameter of the tunnel remaining the same all the way. However, ten minutes or so after they entered, the nature of the walls started to change. While they had been smooth at the entrance, strange patterns were beginning to appear on the rock, seeming to be moving until one looked directly at them. They were … _pulsing_, as if they were the veins of some great, unknowable organism. Arken could feel the tension in his brethren. They were too used to that kind of things to panic, of course, but it set them on edge, even more likely to open fire the instant they reached their destination. And while Arken had little doubt that the meeting with the daemon would end in battle, he had questions he wanted answered before bolts started to fly.

The Commander opened a vox-channel to all the other Space Marines :

'Remember : stay focused. We are here to talk.'

He didn't need to add _for now_. The others would understand his meaning – one didn't bring a thousand Space Marines to _talk –_ and he didn't want the daemon to learn too much from listening to his words. Of course, that was supposing that the creature wasn't directly reading his thoughts or that of any battle-brother, but he had asked the Librarians to be on watch for such an attempt.

No, all that worried him about his men at that point was that some of the World Eaters may be unable to contain their urge to kill when facing a warp-born. The sons of Angron had changed since their Primarch's transformation in Ultramar. He hadn't believed it was possible, but they had become even more brutal and bloodthirsty. The long journey through the Warp had at least given them plenty of fighting, enough to calm them down for a few days, with luck. But Arken was a leader of Astartes. He didn't believe in luck.

Still, he would have to take his chances. The World Eaters were too precious in a fight to leave them behind, even if they would have accepted such an order. So he would just have to hope that they could keep their temper in check long enough.

Hours passed as they descended deeper and deeper. The tunnel was a blatant violation of the laws of geophysics, which only reinforced the impression of alienness. By now, the walls were writhing, tentacles of fluid stone moving endlessly on them. It was unnerving, as if they were in the digestive track of some titanic beast.

Then, at once, the walls returned to polished stone. They had arrived.

They were in a great, apparently perfectly circular cavern. A sphere of almost two kilometers of diameter where the rock had somehow been removed. The tunnel they emerged from was connected to the base of the sphere. Their armor signaled the Astartes that the room was, somehow, filled with breathable air. Some of the Space Marines removed their helmet, but Arken kept his on. Only foolish leaders removed their headgear on the battlefield.

At the center of the room, less than a thousand meters away, was a giant throne. Arken used his helmet's systems to zoom on the chair. He saw …

_Impossible._

It was his father. Horus, as he had been when he had last seen him. Clad in his custom Terminator armor and wearing the infamous Talon of Horus in his hand, Warbreaker in the other. His Primarch was looking at him, and smiling.

Arken knew this was a trick. It had to be. His father was dead. Killed by the Emperor, and even the Octed didn't have the power to undo such a thing. Yet still, in spite of having heard Abaddon's scream of grief, in spite of being immune to the warp-born deceptions, he wanted to believe it. That his gene-sire had somehow survived, and was here before him.

Then the image of his father smiled, and the illusion shattered like glass. The cold tightened its grip over Arken's heart, and he saw clearly again. And, for the first time since he had learned of his Primarch's death, Arken of the Sons of Horus felt hatred rise in his soul, overcoming the numbness that had taken him and spilling into his mind.

Damarion didn't understand. The Primarch was dead. They had all known it, _felt _the truth of it into their very souls. In the aftermath of their gene-sire's fall on Davin, there had been reports from the other fleets that Legionaries had been feeling distressed, even if they had no way to know that their Primarch was dying. There was a connection between all Astartes and their Primarchs that told them whether they were alive or dead – and the fact that the Salamanders somehow clung to the belief that Vulkan lived had caused no small amount of paranoia amongst the Warmaster's Legions.

So _how _could Horus Lupercal be here ?! Damarion recognized him. It was him ! The same dignified face, the same aura of absolute control, the same smile that told everyone else that he knew what he was doing.

Damarion didn't understand. His mind was paralysed. At the edge of his mind, he noticed that the other Sons of Horus were similarly afflicted. All except …

To Damarion's surprise and horror, Commander Arken lifted his bolter and shot. The bolt travelled faster than sound, straight at Horus. The Primarch moved, dodging the projectile, that embedded itself in the black materia of the throne.

But despite the dodge, the damage had been done. The veil lifted from Damarion's eyes. This _wasn't _his Primarch. This was a warp-born, a daemon who dared to profane his gene-sire's memory by assuming his appearance. He felt his hands move, rising the combi-bolter that was placed on his right arm, and stopped only when he saw Arken holding his own hand up, gesturing for all of them to hold on. In his other hand, he held his bolter, still aimed toward the Horus-thing.

Slowly, without letting his aim falter for a moment, the Commander marched toward the throne. The rest of the Astartes followed him, many having their weapons primed and ready as well. The creature made no move, simply slouching back into the throne, ignoring the attempt that had just been made on its existence. Damarion kept himself ready. That thing may wore the face of his father, but if it tried to hurt his Commander, it would pay.

Finally, when he was only ten meters away from the daemon, Arken stopped. His anger had cooled off, but he knew this wasn't going to end well. He looked straight into the daemon eyes, those eyes that looked so much like his Primarch's but were absolutely nothing like them. Keeping his head immobile, he forsook his own strategy and removed his helmet. _This _had to go face-to-face. _This _was important. _This _would shape the future of all the Astartes in the cavern with him.

_'Serixithar,' _he said to the daemon.

'Commander Arken. My son.'

The daemon's voice was just like Horus' had been. Arken pulled the trigger again, causing another mark on the throne, on the opposite side of the creature's head this time. The creature kept smiling.

'How _dare _you ?' growled Arken, making several of the World Eaters start rumbling too. 'How _dare _you appear before me in that disguise ?'

'I thought you would like to look at your father one last time. It appears I was wrong. My apologies, Awakened One.'

'_You_ do not call me that, daemon. Only my comrades call me that. Now, tell me. Why did you call us here ?'

'I didn't 'call' you here, Arken. I _brought _you here. It was by my will that you were separated from the rest of your little band of failures. I arranged for you to come here, rather than in the Eye. While it is a delightful place, I feared it would not be to your liking, and there is so much more you would be able to do outside of its confines.'

Slowly, Arken lowered his bolter. When he spoke, however, his voice was just as charged with anger as it had been before.

'Hundreds of my brothers _died _because of that, daemon.'

'And how many more would have died if you had been trapped in the Eye of Terror with the rest of the Legions ? What do you think they are doing _right now _?'

The daemon stood up, its shape changing, twisting as if bones were rearranging themselves under its skin. A beak pierced the mask the creature wore, revealing a face that was much like that of a vulture. Its hands turned into avian claws, and two feathered wings rose at its back. In a moment, only the remnants of the armor it wore indicated that this was the same creature that had been sitting on the throne when they had entered the cavern. The creature was almost five meters tall, far above even the Terminators.

'You have been absent for a _long _time, Arken, though it is naught but the blink of an eye to my kind. Ten years have passed in this plane since your precious master fell against the Anathema. His failure condemned your race, Arken. Your brothers are trapped in the Eye, now. They are _killing _each other. The Sons of Horus are all but extinct. The other Legions all turned on them for your father's failure. And they didn't escape unscathed either ...'

Serixithar pointed at the Thousand Sons in the army Arken had brought with them with one claw.

'_Their _Legion _is _dead, or as good as. Ahriman, the most powerful of them, foolishly tried to challenge _my _lord, to save his brothers from His touch. He didn't realize he was merely executing my Lord's will. Now, the sons of Magnus have been reduced to an army of puppets whose strings are pulled by the few of them who survived.'

The daemon lurched toward Arken, something akin to a smile forming on its face.

'That is the reason of your presence here. My Lord desire for another group of servants. He desires for another to be His agent in the Materium, and He has chosen you, Arken. I am here as His herald, to offer you to join Him. I will grant you blessings in His name. I will ensure you find plunder and glory. I will make you into the weapon He demands you to be.'

'What makes you think I will even _consider _your offer, daemon ?! We have been slaves to the False Emperor for too long already ! We will never bow to another … _creature _again !'

'Are you comparing _me _to the _Anathema _?!'

Arken smirked. At last, he had managed to throw the daemon off his game.

' I am one of the favorites of the Architect of Fate ! I am one of the Court of Change ! I am a lord of the Warp, mortal, chosen by Tzeentch to be freed of the chains of the Materium and ascend at His side ! You will not _insult _me like that !'

'In case you haven't noticed, Serixithar, you are in presence of _over a thousand _Astartes. _You _are the one who should watch his tongue.'

At Arken's words, those of the Astartes who hadn't already done so aimed their weapons at the daemon. Serixithar merely chuckled.

'They are loyal to you, are they not ? You owe _me _for that, Arken. In the Eye of Terror, you would have torn each other apart, loyalties to your Legions overcoming the fact that they all owe you their life. Here, they have no choice but to follow you … just as you have no choice but to follow me. How do you expect to escape the hunters of the Imperium without my help ? I can guide you through the stars, to avoid the hounds and find easy prey.'

That caused Arken to pause. Despite every reason he had to never trust a warp-born, he had to admit that they knew things. And if that one was an agent of one of the Octed, did he really dare to turn down its offer, at the risk of alienating the Architect of Fate to his warband ? They already had too many enemies, could they bear the wrath of one of the Dark Gods as well ? Magnus had tried to get out of a bargain with him, and he had almost lost his entire Legion for it.

Then he remembered the tales he had heard of Prospero's fall. The Thousand Sons had been betrayed there, but they hadn't been the only ones. The Architect of Fate had sent another of his greater daemons to ensure that the Space Wolves and the Thousand Sons destroyed each other. Asim had heard about it from Ahriman himself, and had told it to Arken when he had been readying for the planetfall. The psyker had thought that he would need to know everything he could about the way daemons behaved.

The daemon on Prospero had been destroyed, and the events hadn't followed the course it had planned. Perhaps …

At this moment, considering all things from a purely logical, pragmatic point of view, Arken felt a sensation of clarity he had never known before, and he saw the plan of the Dark God clearly. He understood exactly why Serixithar was here. This was no divine revelation, no gift from the Warp. It was simply a sudden stroke of genius, a thousand pieces gathered during their journey coming together to form a clear image.

The Commander laughed. It was an horrible sound, devoid of any humour. This was the laughter of a man who understand that he is in the position of power and knows that he alone realizes it. Serixithar looked at him, uncertainty filling its gaze. The daemon hadn't expected him to react that way. That was good. It confirmed what he was already sure of.

'_Why _are you laughing, Arken ?'

'Because, warp-spawn, I just realized what all of this is really about.'

'What are you saying ? Of course you do. I just told you. It is about you and your band of renegades and traitors bending knee before me as the representative of the Architect of Fate,' spat the daemon.

'No. You weren't send here as an emissary, Serixithar.'

Arken smiled, and raised his power sword, pointing the blade at the daemon.

'You were sent here as a _gift_. Asim, do it !'

'What is thiissss ?!'

Serixithar screamed as the Librarian and his coven unleashed their power on him. Arken had given them orders before they had left the _Hand of Ruin –_ hand-written orders, so that the daemon would not be able to intercept them on the vox – about what they were to do if their meeting with the warp-born turned into a fight. They couldn't directly assault it without opening their minds to it and risking being possessed, but they _could_ user their power to cut the greater daemon from the Warp. Not completely, of course, but enough that they wouldn't take as many losses.

With the power of the daemon restrained, Arken ran toward it. Behind him, a thousand Astartes opened fire on Serixithar, carefully aiming so as not to it their leader. The size of the target made that easy. Most of the bolts crashed on the shield of blue lighting that the creature had managed to rise, but even one bolt on a hundred hurt when thousand upon thousand was being shot.

Serixithar's wings were torn apart, the blue feathers vanishing as soon as they left the daemon's body. Countless other bolts hit his body, bursting out in flames and making it scream. The sound was pleasing to Arken's ears.

As he closed in, the daemon noticed his charge. With a panicked shriek, it materialised a staff that it swung at him. Arken blocked it with his free hand, focusing all the strength of his Astartes physiology enhanced by his power armor, and stayed on his feet. If Asim and the others hadn't been weakening the daemon, or if the rest of the warband hadn't been constantly draining its forces with their relentless assault, no doubt he would have been swept aside like an insect. As it was, Arken merely faltered in his course before starting running again.

'What do you think you are doing, you fool ?! Are you denying the will of the Architect of Fate ?! You will be destroyed for that ! Even if you take me down, the wrath of my Lord shall consign you and all your brothers to an eternity of torments, and I shall watch every moment of it !'

'You still do not understand !'

Arken jumped high, dodging another sweep of the staff, and planted his sword through the creature's torso. The daemon screamed in agony, and sent the claw that wasn't holding the staff to catch the Space Marine.

Arken felt the claws press on his armor, trying to gut him like he was gutting the daemon. At the same time, he felt Serixithar trying to crush his mind with its power.

'I will rip your soul from your pathetic flesh ! I will make you suffer so much, you will wish you had been left to rot on your backwater world as an infant !'

The psychic pressure broke through Arken's defenses, and reached straight to his soul. The Son of Horus groaned in pain, his brain about to burst …

Then Serixithar's assault met the frozen wasteland that was Arken's soul. There was such _hatred _in the Space Marine, even though it was contained and kept under careful control. The Son of Horus despised almost everything in the universe, and his hatred burnt the daemon like acid.

Squealing, Serixithar jerked its claw away, but too late : already it was burning with a black fire that was the psychic reflection of Arken's cold rage. The pain shattered the daemon's focus, and he took the next volley of bolts directly. With a last scream of pain, Serixithar collapsed, Arken's blade still embedded in its chest.

The Commander stood up above the daemon's pitiful form, his face devoid of expression once more.

'Treachery,' mewled the daemon. 'I am betrayed.'

'Yes,' said Arken while pulling his blade free. 'You are. Asim, if you please.'

The Thousand Sons and the rest of the coven surrounded the wounded daemon, bringing with them the black case. When Serixithar laid eyes upon it, the creature started to beg :

'No ! Please, not that ! Have mercy !'

'What mercy did _you _have for all our brothers who died because of you ?'

'I beg you ! I will _serve _you !'

'Yes, you will. Do it, Asim.'

At the psyker's command, the case stood upright and opened, revealing the body of an Ultramarine Librarian, captured during the assault on the _Hand of Ruin _and kept in stasis since then. Asim had captured the legionary himself, and Arken had ordered to keep him 'alive', if not conscious. The Son of Horus considered it deeply ironic, that the so vaunted Thirteenth Legion, so proud of its absolute obedience to the False Emperor, would not hesitate to break his edict as soon as following them became actually inconvenient. The prisonner was the ultimate proof of Guilliman's hypocrisy … and now, he was going to become much more.

Asim focused all of his mystical might, reciting the Greater Enumerations to keep himself from succumbing to the Warp's tentations. He could feel them, clawing at his defenses, trying to get in his mind. After Prospero, he had cast away his 'guardian spirit', realising that the creature had only been trying to manipulate him all along. It had hurt, and it had deprived him of a significant portion of his abilities. But he had honed his skills since then, in the fires of the civil war and during the exode. His will would _not _falter.

When they had left the _Hand of Ruin_, Arken had planned in detail for what was to come, laying out different courses of action depending on how the meeting went. They had brought the prisonner with them for one of these plans, and it was now time.

The stasis field that trapped the Ultramarine weakened and vanished, leaving the Librarian to slowly regain consciousness. Asim felt the horror that came from the warrior's mind as he began to realise where he was and what was happening. It was a small mercy that he wouldn't fully understand his situation until it was too late. The Thousand Son had no particular hatred for the sons of Guilliman; their master had been neutral at Nikea. But Asim's Legion had chosen a side in the Forever War that was to come, and he and his brothers would honor the bargain their Primarch had made, regardless of the consequences.

The coven forced Serixithar's essence down the Ultramarine's throat, binding daemon and Astartes into one entity. With old, blasphemous words that had been taught to them by the Word Bearers in their group, they merged the two, letting Serixithar consume the soul of the warrior they would once have called brother. They set sigils and wards of power on the body, and summoned chains forged of the very Aether to bind it to place. The torrents of psychic power they were unleashing caused the very rock around them to tremble, and for a moment Asim feared that the entire cavern was going to come down on them. But whatever power it was that kept the impossible structure intact still held, and the ritual of binding finally came to its term.

Serixithar, who had once been a sorcerer of an alien race long extinct, Daemon Prince of Tzeentch, was bound to the flesh of Brother Acamas, born on Ultramar and survivor of Calth. The noble soul of the Space Marine was crushed by the daemon's presence, shattered into tiny pieces. Then the mouth of the possessed Astartes opened, and the trapped Daemon Prince started to scream. It kept screaming until the stasis coffin closed back on it and muffled the horrendous sound. The group of renegade Librarians fixed seals on the confinement, and the ritual was finally over.

There was no cheer of victory, no congratulation delivered to those who had risked their souls to put down the daemon. What had they won, after all ? They were still renegades, lost inside the borders of an empire that hated them. Many looked at Arken, their faces hidden by their helmets, asking for answers. Whispers ran across the vox, questions being asked, concerns about the future shared. Why had the Awakened One done that ? Why had he renounced the alliance of one of the Immaterium's lords ?

What was his plan ?

Arken looked at his brothers, and he understood the doubts that ran through them. He picked up his helmet, and held it under his arm. Then, he walked up to the throne. The object was atop a small upheaval in the rock. Standing there, above his brothers, he raised his hands, and silence came.

For a few moments, the Commander simply looked at the thousand Space Marines before him. Then, he spoke, his voice spreading to all those gathered in the cavern.

'We have failed, brothers. The Legions have failed. The Imperium still stands. The cowards and the weak will continue to rule over the warriors that built the empire they are claiming for themselve.'

'But answer me this : _why _did we fail ?'

None of the warriors dared to try an answer. The pain of defeat was still too recent.

'Some may say that we lost because of my own Legion. Because we ran when our Primarch fell, instead of continuing fighting. But that is wrong. All the war depended on the confrontation between Horus and the False Emperor. With my father dead … there was no way we may have triumphed, not with Guilliman and the Lion striking at our back.'

Arken lowered his head, and continued talking.

'So why did we fail ? I have thought about this since we left Terra. I have thought about it during all our journey, even during the battles against the warp-born. That question had gnawed at my mind mercilessly for months … and I have finally found the answer.'

'We failed, my brothers, because our _fathers _failed. The Primarchs failed in their mission. They were all flawed, _all _of them.'

He pointed at himself :

'Horus failed when he launched Isstvan too soon, when not all Legions that may have stood with us did. He failed to control the war he had launched, he allowed his forces to spread too thin across the galaxy.'

He pointed at Asim :

'Magnus failed when the Wolves attacked Prospero. He waited until the last moment to take the bargain that was offered to him, causing the death of thousands of his own sons and failing to destroy the Emperor's executionners.'

He kept speaking, his head now raised, pointing at members of each Legion in turn.

The Word Bearers : 'Lorgar failed when he spread the worship of the Emperor, strengthening our enemies in this war we lost. He failed further when he let his Legion be manipulated by Erebus and Kor Phaeron, letting it slip from his grasp and fall into petty disputs.'

The Death Guard : 'Mortarion failed to see the power of the Librarius, and feared the Warp, refusing to use it until he and all of his sons were forced to bow down to it. Even then he waited until it was almost too late before kneeling in front of the Lord of Corruption, losing many of his sons.'

The Emperor's Children : 'Fulgrim let his Legion be broken at Iydris, just after he had almost killed his own brother and ally. His egoism caused his sons to shatter across the galaxy, instead of being a united force at the Warmaster's back.'

The World Eaters : 'Angron forced his sons down the Eightfold Path, denying them the honor of choosing it for themselves. He sacrificed countless warriors in the shadow war, failing to use even the most basic of tactics. He turned his Legion to the Blood God but failed to control it, and many killed each other in a vain attempt to appease his thirst.'

The Alpha Legion : 'Alpharius pushed the Warmaster to use treachery and deceit when raw strength and power would have been enough. His passion for stratagems and his unwillingness to share his plans with his allies brought his Legion in opposition to the others who had joined the Warmaster's cause.'

The Night Lords : 'Konrad Curze sent his Legion in a war they weren't made to fight, forsaking his tactics of fear and terror to directly battle the Lion's monks, in an attempt to sacrifice the Legion he hated to some higher purpose. He let the madness consume him and failed to honor his oaths, and he let his Legion break down as well.'

The Iron Warriors : 'Perturabo caused his warriors to plot and scheme against each other with his brutish tactics, letting those under him die in the trenches rather than try to change his ways. Yet despite this, he failed to see Fulgrim's own trap, and was beaten by the Phoenician even though he survived the plot. He lost too many warriors to his pride ...'

Arken shook his head.

'_All _of our fathers lost too many warriors due to their pride. We lost that war because of it. Our fathers have failed us, my brothers. They are demigods, unfit to rule over men, be they mortal or ageless as we, their sons, are.'

His voice rose louder :

'They failed us, and now we stand alone, far from them, lost, at the mercy of those who hate us in their ignorance of the truth. But I promise this to you : we shall have our revenge ! We shall grow strong and prepare ourselves. We shall hide when needed and strike at every chance. We shall make the Imperium suffer for its betrayal and its weakness. And even if it takes ten thousand years,' roared the Son of Horus, 'I swear to you : we shall see it fall !'

A clamor rose from a thousand throats claiming their approval and their loyalty.

'From this moment, we shall no longer be bound by our blood. We shall not deny it, but we shall rise _beyond _it. We shall be known as the Forsaken Sons, and we will destroy all those who would stand against us !'

* * *

Author's notes:

So, here I am again. I told you I would explain a few things :

To all those who would have liked to see how the Traitor Legions lived in the Eye of Terror after the Heresy : sorry, but that wasn't possible. I wanted to make a story about a warband with warriors of different Legions, and there is _no way _that can happen in the Eye at the moment. I mean, every Legion is at each other's throat, and every one is ganging on the Sons of Horus for losing the war (remember, Abaddon hasn't replaced Horus yet). The Forsaken Sons will probably end up in the Eye of Terror at one point in time, but not until Abaddon has formed the Black Legion _at least._

I understand that Serixithar looks more like a Duke of Change than a Daemon Prince, but Tzeentch has a lot of daemons at his service, and he is the master of _change, _so it makes sense that one his Daemon Princes would look like one of his Greater Demons. (I am telling you that it makes sense. Don't try to think about it, you may prove me wrong.)

Anyway, now that the warband has taken its new name, I have finished the first part of the story, the one about their origins. Now, I have a lots of idea about what to do next. It will probably take a little while to choose one, so the next chapter should come in a week or two.

If you have enjoyed this chapter, please review it. If you haven't liked it and have a specific reason for it (style, grammair, errors in the lore) please review it too, that I may correct such problems for the next chapters.

Thank you all for reading,

Zahariel out.


	3. Chapter 3 : The Dirge of Isleas

I am back ! And so are the Sons.

First, I would like to thank you all for your reviews :

Death's Watcher : thank you for your approval. Writing this is a real pleasure for me, so I am happy to see other people enjoy it.

Bibobot : it will be a while before Arken and the rest learn about the Slave Wars and the Cloning of Horus. After all, it hasn't happened yet ... or has it ? Warp, time, you know how these things work. Still, I think they will be _pissed _when they find out.

Heir of the Void : oh, I have a bone prepared for them, do not worry. But this is going to be the last one they get for a while : they will have to work for the rest.

Giodan : Glad it pleases you !

And now, the chapter ! I will see you again at the end.

* * *

Wherever Damarion looked, he could see only ruins. Not a single building of the city was left standing, and his Terminator Armor didn't pick up any signs of life. Not that he had expected it to : Perseus had already scanned the area with the more powerful auspex of the Thunderhawk, and he hadn't detected anything. Still, habits died hard.

There didn't seem to be anything worth their time here, let alone the four months of warp travel it had taken them to get to this ruined world. Damarion turned to his lord and master :

'Are you sure this is the place, Awakened One ?'

Lord Arken simply nodded in response. Since he had defeated the Daemon Prince Serixithar, the Commander had spent a lot of time planning the next move of the warband – of the Forsaken Sons, Damarion corrected himself. It was still difficult to think of himself as no longer being only a Son of Horus. He, like most of the Sixteenth Legion aboard the _Hand of Ruin_, had ritually painted over the emblem of his Legion on his shoulder pads, covering it in black paint. The color of his armor still gave away his former allegiance, but as Lord Arken had said : they weren't to deny their blood.

But despite his trust in his lord, Damarion was still curious :

'Why did we come here, my Lord ? This world is obviously already dead. There is nothing here, except the spirits of the dead.'

'You are wrong, Damarion. There is _something _here.'

'The Coven told us that, my Lord. And they insisted that we do not set foot upon this world.'

'The Coven does not know all, brother. What awaits us here will be of great help to us.'

'Did the «Oracle» tell you that, my Lord ? How can you trust its information ?'

'I cannot, Damarion, and that is why we are here. This is … a test, of sort, an opportunity, to test the fiability of our «Oracle»'.

Lord Arken's voice stayed neutral during all his speech, yet Damarion felt his skin crawl when he heard his Lord speak about the Oracle. When they had captured the Daemon Prince four months ago, Asim and the rest of the Coven had locked it up in one of the _Hand of_ _ Ruin's _vacant storage rooms. The section of the ship had been forbidden to all except for the Awakened One and the members of the Coven themselves – and even them had to come with Asim's permission and only to check the spells that kept the daemon contained. Powerful wards had been placed on almost every surface in a rayon of three hundred meters around the room, to make sure that the daemon's influence was contained. Some had claimed that this was going too far, but Lord Arken had quickly silenced them, and Damarion approved. He remembered all too well what happened when a daemon was loose on a ship.

Lord Arken had gone to what the Astartes and the crew had come to call the Oracle's room once it had been completed. For several days, he had stayed alone with the chained and bound daemon, while the crew, under Merchurion's direction, brought aboard ore from the handful of planets of the system. More complet scans of the worlds had revealed unusual concentrations of metal within, and the Techno-Adept had expressed something that Damarion could only identify as joy as the opportunity to send teams of servitors to begin digging. He had wanted to set up a more permanent mining exploitation, but they needed more ressources before that was possible.

It had surprised everyone when Lord Arken had emerged of the room with a course set for the ship. He had recalled all the servitors deployed, claiming that they would need them, and launched the _Hand of Ruin _across of the Warp, to a system that was, if anything, even more reclusive that the one where they had been brought by Serixithar's warp-craft.

Damarion had read the archives of the ship about this place. Less than half a century ago, at the apex of the Great Crusade, this planet had been heavily populated by human colonists, descendants of those having left Terra thousands of years before. Almost thirty billions had lived in the hive-cities that covered most of the planet's surface.

Then, the Word Bearers had come. At the time, the Seventeenth Legion had already stopped spreading the worship of the False Emperor, illuminated by his actions at Monarchia. The population of the world had refused the initial proposition to return to the fold of the Imperium, and during the war that had followed, a lethal bioweapon had been unleashed by the planet's ruling cast in a desperate attempt to destroy the invaders. Not a single human being on the world that had once been called Isleas had survived, only the surhuman physiology of the Legionaries deployed allowing them to survive.

Or at least, that was what the reports had said. Speaking with the Word Bearers among the Forsaken Sons, Damarion had been told a different story. The people of Isleas would probably have accepted to join the Imperium. But the Legionaries that came to the world had already embraced the Primordial Truth, and they saw no reason to add to the False Emperor's subjects. Instead, under orders from Lorgar himself, they had personnaly put every man, woman and child of Isleas to the sword. Thirty billion souls had died without knowing why. Before leaving the ship, Damarion had spoken to the Coven, and they had told him that they felt _something _on the planet, but were unable to tell them why, only that they really wanted to stay as far away from it as possible.

Something seemed anormal to Damarion. He was uneasy, and he couldn't understand why … wait.

'My lord.'

'What's wrong, Damarion ?'

'If thirty billions people died on this world, then …'

Damarion gestured at the desolation before them :

'_How come I cannot see a single human remain ?'_

* * *

In the orbit of Isleas, Asim was walking the corridors of the _Hand of Ruin. _Once teeming with activity, most of them were now abandonned, the diminished crew of the ship barely capable of keeping it functionnal. The Coven had scanned the entirety of the ship to make sure there weren't any daemons still hidden, but mortal serfs still prefered not to go to the unused sections.

This made them the perfect place for someone seeking a moment of solitude, which was why Asim had come here.

All members of the Coven had felt it when they had emerged from the Warp : there was _something _on the planet below. They had gone to the Awakened One, to warn him, but he had dismissed their concerns. He knew what was waiting on the planet, had he claimed. And he had insisted that none of the Coven's members were to go with him on Isleas. None had been to enthusiast about it either, but still, it had rattled their pride to be so easily dismissed, even if it was for their own good.

Asim had calmed his peers by telling them that Arken knew what he was doing, that he wasn't going on the planet alone – he was bringing with him an escort of forty Astartes in addition to his Terminator bodyguards – and that he had faced a Daemon Prince before without being utterly destroyed, as he should have been even with the Coven's support. Their lord was _protected, special _somehow in the eyes of the Empyrean, and they had to trust him.

Those were good points, but Asim would have loved to believe them more than he did. As it was, they felt empty in his mouth even as he had spoken them. Even now, he could feel it : the raw, savage _power _that emanated from the world, impossibly kept stable and contained. There was enough power down there to utterly _destroy _the ball of rock that the lord of the Forsaken Sons was leading.

And Asim didn't want Arken to die. The Son of Horus had saved them all during the Exodus, as the warriors now called their hellish journey. He had outwitted a daemon, something even Asim's father and Primarch had failed to do. Better yet, he had given Asim a chance at revenge against the warp-born that were responsible for his homeworld's destruction, even more so than the Space Wolves.

Russ' sons, in the end, had been manipulated, and although Arken's own father was also to blame for the change in the Wolves' orders, it was Magnus that was to blame. As the Awakened One had said, it was Magnus' hubris that had drawn the Emperor's wrath, and it was Magnus' self-pity that had led him to let his Legion almost die without acting. Asim didn't _hate _his father per se … but he no longer looked up at him in awe and worship as he had before. That was why he had done like many others in the warband, painting his shoulder emblem in black paint.

_Do you hope that by betraying your allegiance, you will escape the bargain that has been made by your father, Son of the Cyclops ?_

The Sorcerer stopped dead in his tracks. The voice hadn't come from his own subconscious. It hadn't been a real whisper, either.

'You are contained, Serixithar,' he said to the empty corridor. 'I don't know how you managed to reach me through your bonds, but I know that you cannot do anything else than shout out empty threats.'

_Empty ? I may have failed to turn your lord to the service of the Architect of Fate, but _your _soul belongs to him, as it has since the day your father first reached for His help in saving you !_

Asim didn't answer. He simply kept walking, ignoring the daemon's words.

_You think he can save you ? That just changing the color of your emblem will free you from Him ? No, you aren't that foolish, Asim. You know the truth. Tzeentch owns you, little sorcerer. Everything you do is in His benefit._

'Including emprisonning _you _and making you into my Lord's own private source of warp-related information ?' launched Asim, a bitter smile on his lips.

The Daemon Prince _hissed _at the words.

Me _being a pawn is nothing new, mortal. The Gods play games that even I and my peers cannot understand, and if He chooses to make me your master's Oracle for a while, then I shall accept His superior will. __But this doesn't change anything about you, Asim. _

Asim shook his head, the movement heavy with resignation.

'Yes, you are probably right,' he admitted. 'But then what ? Should I just kill myself now and let the Lord of Change take me ? He may be the owner of my soul at the moment, but Tzeentch is the God of Hope, too. My situation may evolve in time … and I still have things worth living for. For instance, knowing that you are trapped in the Ultramarine's corpse. _That _provides me some joy, Serixithar.'

The voice spat out a few curses in a language older than Mankind, then went silent. Asim made a mental note to warn the rest of the Astartes and the crew about the daemon's voice. Shut down behind as many wards as it was, the Daemon Prince couldn't do anything else than speak to them, but warning them would ensure they know not to believe any threat it may send.

At least, thought the Sorcerer, the conversation with Serixithar had taken his mind off the danger he felt from the planet below.

The expedition had kept walking, following their lord and leader. They were a lot more tense now that Damarion had pointed out what exactly had been setting them on the edge since their arrival. Regardless of the decades that had passed since the genocide, the bones of thirty billions people didn't simply _vanish_.

But Lord Arken had commanded them to ignore it and move forward, and so they had pressed on. They would rather have had some of the Coven with them, and a few had expressed that concern, but the Awakened One had told them that most members of the Coven would die the moment they set foot on this world … if they were lucky. The might of their swords and bolters would have to be enough.

* * *

As they passed through the corpse of the city, Damarion noticed items scattered in the rubble, his mind recreating the scenes that had led them to be here. A broken gun left behind a wall that had been torn apart by heavy fire – the last stand of a man who was seeing his world burn at the Word Bearers' hands. Bolter shells on a line in front of a building's remnants – the last traces of an execution site, where Legionaries had gunned down prisonners. A depiction of some animal, made of string, cloth and stuffing …

'Here,' said Arken. 'This is what we are looking for.'

They had reached what had once been a street, but was now a giant hole in the ground. Bombing, or some other of the terrible forces unleashed by the Word Bearers upon the hapless world, had torn apart the ground and exposed the vast sewers beneath. Damarion half-expected the tunnels to be filled with corpses, but they, too, were empty.

'We are going down,' ordered Lord Arken.

The sewers were entirely dried out. Whatever the Word Bearers had done to this world that had drained it of all life, it had also removed all moisture upon the planet. Damarion's armor told him that the planet was still _technically _viable, in the sense that a mortal could walk it without an isolated suit and not dying immediately. But it was impossible for life to appear again in these conditions. Even a single human would drain the oxygen in the air, and with no plants to renew it, he would die an agonizing death, even though it would take centuries for him to breath all the planet's atmosphere.

The tunnels were broad, large enough for the Terminators to walk side by side, keeping their master protected. Clearly, the city above them had been prosperous, for it to be able to afford such sanitary structures. On too many worlds, Damarion had seen hivers dwell in their own filth and crass, living like animals. But it seemed that hadn't been the case of Isleas' citizens.

The other Space Marines walked ahead, scanning the corridors for threats with the natural efficiency born from decades of training and practice. They were finding no threat, and so the group went on, following Lord Arken's instructions. It was as if the Awakened One had already been here.

As they went deeper, the light that had filtered through the hole in the ground dimmed, and the Astartes were surrounded by a darkness that would have been inpenetrable for a mortal man. It was no concern to the Forsaken Sons, however, their gene-enhanced vision more than able to pierce the obscurity even without the support of their helmet's visor.

Some of the tunnels had collapsed, but their lord drove them on, always knowing which path to take in the labyrinthine underground. As they advanced, however, they began to feel an all too familiar sensation. A constant tingling, a pressure at their mind, as if _something _was trying to claw inside their skulls.

_Warp-craft. _They were coming closer of what had scared the Coven.

Then, finally, they arrived in front of a giant door of adamantium that blocked the way forward.

* * *

_The gate stands in his path, covered in images of the Immaterium. He sees servants of the Octed dancing around a giant horned skull, the blood of innocents dripping from its sockets …_

Arken shook off the memories before they overwhelmed him.

'This is it, my brothers,' he voxed to the rest of the expedition. 'This is why we have come to this worthless ruin.'

'The Seventeenth Legion built this ?' asked Damarion.

'More probably their Mechanicus allies, but, yes. And behind that door is the prize I seek.'

'How do we open it, my Lord ? It looks thick enough to resist anything we can do to it. And we cannot exactly bring heavy artillery down here.'

'Do not worry, Damarion. I know what I am doing.'

Arken walked toward the gate, looking at the drawings engraved upon it. Yes, those were the ones he had seen. Now, he had to remember how to open the chamber. He closed his eyes, and forced back the visions that Serixithar had shown him in the Oracle's chamber.

_He sees the warriors of the Seventeenth bringing in the world's people, dead or alive. There is too many of them for the Legionaries to drag them all, but they do not need to._

_For the dead are walking. They rise or crawl on the ground, coming to this place, drawn by the power within. Only the most damaged corpses do not heed the call._

_He sees the souls of the defuncts trapped within their flesh as the hellish siren call pulls them to itself. Their torment are only beginning, however, as they are consumed by the horror in the chamber._

_As the last of Isleas' dead enter their destiny, the Word Bearers seal the gate, waiting for the time to unleash the power within …_

The eyes of the Lord of the Forsaken Sons snapped open as he finally found the information he needed. When the Chapter of the Burning Bones had destroyed this world, their Chaplain – or Dark Apostle, as they now call them – had sealed the gate with but a word, completing the arcanes placed upon the door.

But 'word' wasn't appropriate. The Apostle had used the language of daemons, in which every syllabe is a daemon in itself. By his will, he had bound twenty-seven different warp-born to the gate. Three times three times three : an invocation of the Dark God Nurgle the Plague Father.

Arken took a deep breath, gestured for his Terminator guards to get closer to him, and spoke the daemon-word.

_Pain. Greater pain than anything he had ever known; greater even than the one he had felt in the Oracle's Chamber, trying to pry Serixithar's rambling for useful information ..._

There was a reason the Thousand Sons spent years training before trying to hold the power of the Warp. Arken's untrained mind, while unnaturaly resilient to the Empyrean's touch, was still unsuited to the task. The pain made him fall to his knees, and only the support of his guards prevented him to crash on the ground. Blackness took him for a few seconds, and when he woke up, there was blood in his mouth and every single one of his muscles burned with pain, as if he had just fought for days on end. Suppressing the suffering with an effort of will, Arken looked up and saw that the gate had opened, opening in its middle to reveal utter darkness beyond. The Astartes were looking within, but none had yet dared to cross the treshold.

Good. Even Arken wasn't certain what to expect from this point. For some reason, Serixithar's visions had been unable to see precisely what laid beyond the gate, although the _purpose _of it was known to the Daemon Prince.

'Astartes,' he groaned in a pained voice, feeling his lungs hurt as he forced air into them so that he may speak. 'This is where things become dangerous. Stay alert and keep your weapons readied at all times. The dead of this world are waiting for us.'

As they entered the chamber, the Traitor Marines felt as if they had entered a different world altogether. This was a disturbingly familiar sensation to them, but _this _was vastly different from Serixithar's own tunnel or the horrors unleashed on the _Hand of Ruin _during the Exodus. Even though none of them possessed psyker abilities, they could literally _smell_ the power that dwelled here.

It smelled like death.

* * *

_They have entered the Nexus of Corruption, Asim_, said the whispers, back after half an hour of blessed silence. The Sorcerer sighed.

'Really now ? And then what ? Are you going to taunt me with depiction of how horrible their deaths are going to be, and how there is nothing I can do to prevent it, and that this is all the will of the Architect of Fate ?'

_It is not His will. Another of the Dark Powers is at play here, one who is the opposing of my Master. It was in the Putrescent One's name that the Priests-Slaves killled all of this world's inhabitants._

'Then why did you bring us here, if that does not serve your Master's plans ? Are you not supposed to be His loyal's servant ?'

_I cannot choose what I see, nor what your lord chooses to pry from my mind when he comes to me. But the Priests-slaves do not favor any of the Octed, instead foolishly believing themselves to be transcendant in serving the Greater Chaos. The power may have been gathered in Nurgle's name, but its effects will be pure Chaos. If your master succeeds, all who serve the Primordial Truth shall revel in this victory._

'And if he fails ?'

_He will die. His body will join the waiting dead, his soul will be consumed by the Nexus, his fate shared by all who followed him, and the gate will be closed once more. The Nexus' power will force it shut, and you and your brethren will be left alone._

'I am not worried. He will not fail.'

_Why do you trust him so ? Why do you all look up to him ? All who led you have failed. What makes you think he is different ?_

Asim looked at a stain on the _Hand of Ruin'_s wall. He remembered what had happened here. An abomination of pink flesh had killed his brother, Kasiya, and spread his brains across the entire corridor. He had been weakened by days of fighting, and would have fallen to it too …

If the Awakened One hadn't saved his life. He had rushed through the arcane flames that had then filled the corridor and destroyed the daemon. Then Asim had saved _him _by sending lighting against the two, smaller, blue daemons that had risen from the creature's corpse. They had all learned something new that day. Arken, that this kind of warp-born turned into two lesser creatures upon its death, and Asim, that the Son of Horus was a worthy leader.

_Is that it ? He saved your life, so you follow him ?_

'For a being that prides itself on being one of the Galaxy's greatest manipulators, you really don't understand us, Serixithar.'

_Is it because you have no choice then ? Because he is strong ? Because he already leads you, and no one has the will and strength to challenge him ?_

'It is not,' snapped the Sorcerer. Anger was beginning to rise in Asim.

_Then why ?_

'Because he gave us a purpose in our lives. Because he gave us freedom from our past. Because he gave us a name.'

* * *

The dead, it appeared, weren't _waiting _for them anymore : they were coming at the Astartes themselves.

After entering what Arken knew was named the Nexus, the Traitor Marines had walked along a narrow path of stone, suspended over an abyss that was almost entirely filled with bones. By Arken's estimation, the bones of the entirety of the population of the world was down there. Thirty billion skeletons, tossed in a pit, their flesh and souls sacrificed to what was lying in the altar before them, on a circle of stone fifty meters broad, that was resting on the mass of the dead. Without the support of the bones, it would have collapsed under its own weight … or, considering the amount of warp-power that was contained within, would have stayed afloat nonetheless.

Perhaps they would be able to test this soon. When Arken had walked toward the altar, the dead had suddenly started to rise. The bones had knitted back together, forming back the scattered skeletons, green flames burning in their empty sockets. Then, flesh had started to grow back on the bones, already rotting, and the zombies had started to throw themselves at the Astartes.

Fury filled Damarion and his brothers at the sight. They had seen creatures like those once. On the moon of Daavin, they had been assaulted by the walking dead, their father falling for the first time. He had risen _then_, but now he was lost, and the pain of grief still burnt bitterly in their souls.

Roaring in rage, the Terminators tore apart the undead horde, covered by the fire of their brethren. They spread across the platform, each covering a part of it, while Arken stayed at the altar. The undead flesh burst apart under the lightning claws and the bolter rounds. The creatures were destroyed by the hundred every moment. But regardless of their prowess, the Astartes couldn't hope to defeat the _billions _of monsters that could appear. Soon, they would encounter the same problem they had faced on Daavin : they didn't have enough ammunition with them.

'Hold them back,' voxed Arken, his voice still calm and composed despite the situation. 'I need to finish what we came here to do.'

After receiving a serie of aknowledgments from the squads he had brought with him, Arken focused on the altar.

It was an ugly thing. Crafted from the corpses of Isleas' rulers sewn together by the power of the Warp, it reeked of rot and corruption. The mouths of the unfortunate mortals still gave off a constant wailing, their souls endlessly tortured. Three putrescent heads were bound together atop the grotesque thing, forming the symbol of the Plague Father. Their eyes were long gone, yet they focused their dead glances at the Forsaken Son as he drew closer.

_This is the key_, thought Arken. _The core of the Nexus, the gate holding back the power harvested from this enormous sacrifice._

Looking at the thing, he could feel the tremendous energies contained by it. The undead that were attacking his brethren were merely by-products of the ritual, animated by the scraps of the power that had been summoned. The power still hung on the treshold of potentiality, not yet fully formed, awaiting the final signal.

_This is a weapon, _remembered Arken from what he had seen in the Oracle's chamber. _A weapon that shoud have been used in the war, but was forgotten when those who designed and created it were lost to the whims of the battlefield._

Serixithar had shown him how the Chapter of the Burning Bones had died. They had died out on Isstvan V, in an ambush led by Corax himself in the days after the Massacre. The Dark Apostle had been gutted by the Ravenlord's claws, his blood spilled in vengence by a father who had seen his sons die by thousands before his eyes.

Corax had seen his Legion die in front of him … and yet, he hadn't broken. He had saved his few remaining warriors, and from this point he had been a thorn in the Warmaster's side for all the duration of the rebellion. Rumors said that he had tried to resurrect his Legion by using secret technologies, but had been foiled by the Alpha Legion.

_He was defeated, his hopes destroyed before his very eyes, and still he did not fail_, thought Arken bitterly. As much as he hated them, the Astartes had to face the facts : the loyalist Primarchs had done a better job than those who had followed the Warmaster.

This only confirmed what he had known : the Primarchs of the Traitor Legions were not fit to lead them any longer. And now, with his actions, he would strike a blow against the Imperium that would be the first step on proving he was right. Arken raised his power sword above the altar, steadying himself for what was to come. He sent a single predetermined vox-signal to the _Hand of Ruin_, waiting until he received confirmation that his order had been obeyed. Then ...

_I hope you are watching this, Horus._

He brought down the blade, slashing through the flesh of the altar, cutting open the rotten skin and letting the bile and tainted blood spill.

And in the Empyrean, thirty billions damned souls screamed, their agony suddenly mixed with relief as, at least, they were allowed to join oblivion, consumed to fuel the power that was unleashed.

* * *

Asim felt something shift in the Immaterium, and it took a few seconds for the Sorcerer to recognize it : the Geller Fields had been raised. But they were still in realspace, so why would they …

_IT COMES !_

Asim fell on his knees, feeling the unleashing of the power that had until now been contained on the planet below. The Warp itself manifested, tearing the veil between it and reality apart, spreading through space at the speed of thought. Despite the Geller Fields – and Asim trembled at the thought of what would have happened to all psychic souls on board had they not been raised – the Sorcerer felt a splitting headache roar in his brain.

'By Magnus' Eye, Arken,' he muttered, trying to catch his breath. 'You have done it now.'

_The storm rages ! The shadow comes ! The Sea of Souls is now in fury ! _

Serixithar's voice was filled with glee, which was strange since it was thanks to the actions of the one who had defeated and imprisonned it. Asim forced himself to ask, ignoring the pain :

'Is … is this what Arken intended ?'

_The ships of the Anathema's slaves shall no longer sail in this part of the Great Ocean ! The light of the Beacon of Pain can no longer reach it ! Darkness comes down upon a hundred worlds, with a silence only pierced by the screams of the damned ! The Dark Gods are laughing ! _

'… I guess this answers my question.'

* * *

Perseus was sitting in the Thunderhawk. He had seen many things in his life of service to the Sixteenth Legion : some glorious, many horrible. He had been on Daavin when the Warmaster had first fallen, and he had helped Astartes to be deployed on a hundred battlefields. He had seen Terra burn at the Traitor Legions' hands. Yet nothing he had seen compared to what was happening in the skies of the dead world.

He had looked at the Warp _once_, during one of the ship's journey before the False Emperor's treachery had been revealed to them, so this wasn't entirely an alien vision. But this time, it was happening in realspace.

The storm raged in the heavens, and lightning bolts of colors that couldn't be conceived by the human mind were unleashedon the world below. The ruins shook with the power of the Empyrean, and the pilots of the transports could only pray that their craft wouldn't be the target of the next one.

_'… Perseus, do you hear me ?'_

The pilot jumped at the voice. He rushed at the vox :

'Lord Damarion ? ! Are you alright ?'

The answer was mixed with static :

_' … been better. Prepare … evacuation.'_

'What ?! But, my Lord, we cannot fly in something like this !'

There was a pause, and Perseus feared that he had gone to far.

_' … Lord Arken … should dissipate soon … on this side of the veil. Get ready.'_

'If … you say so, my lord …'

Perseus relayed the order to the rest of the pilots, along with the warning that the storm would dissipate soon. Fortunately, none of the mortal serfs contested Lord Arken's affirmation.

A few minutes later, he saw the Astartes run toward the crafts … and the ground was collapsing behind them. The Astartes' armors were covered in scratches and dents, but none of them seemed to be really harmed.

At the back of the group, he saw Lord Damarion and the other Terminators reaching speeds he had never seen before in one of the tank-like warriors, barely keeping away from the chasm behind them. Lord Arken was being carried by two warriors formerly of the Eight Legion, ahead of everyone else. The Night Lords brought him aboard Perseus' Thunderhawk before running off to their own craft.

As soon as each squad had reached their transport, the terrified pilot hit the gas and brought them up. Luckily, while the devastation was still ongoing on the ground, the skies _had _calmed down, merely being of an unnatural color.

Lord Damarion went into the Thunderhawk last, and shouted at Perseus :

'Get us out of this planet before it fall apart !'

Perseus didn't bother to answer, instead pushing the motor to its limit. He didn't know what would happen if the chasm reached them before they were airborn, but he knew for certain that _he didn't want to know_.

They rose in the air, and Perseus began to fly them back to the _Hand of Ruin. _Once they were far enough from the ground, he asked :

'Is Lord Arken alright ?'

'Not really,' came the answer, but that the Lord could speak for himself was still encouraging. 'Nothing I cannot bear, though. I told them I would run like everyone else, but they insisted.'

'My Lord,' said Damarion, 'I am getting report from your armor that you are bleeding, both internally and externally, have several bones broken, including a rib that has pierced one of your lungs, and are generally experiencing such a level of muscle pain that the machine-spirit cannot measure it.'

'As I said, Damarion : nothing I cannot bear.'

* * *

Hours later, after the expedition force had been brought back aboard the _Hand of Ruin_, which had lowered its Geller Fields when the storm had calmed, the leaders of every pack were gathered in the strategium. About sixty Astartes were gathered, and the room's talks were diffused through the vox for all the Legionaries aboard to hear – and all mortals who tuned in the right frequency. This wasn't a secret gathering. Arken believed that the secrecy the lodges had insisted to keep in the Legions before the rebellion had actually prevented Astartes that would have sided with the Warmaster to make their allegiance known.

'Brothers,' said Arken, still feeling the pain in his lungs were the Apothecary had closed off the wound. 'It is time I explain what exactly we have done today.'

'As you know, the Word Bearers' – he gave a small nod toward the side of the table where the sons of Colchis were gathered – 'slaughtered the population of the world below us during the Great Crusade. They used the death of all these people as sacrifices, a combustible with which to fuel a ritual of great power. That ritual was to be unleashed when the time to throw down the masks had come, but such an opportunity never arose, and the power of Isleas' Dirge was forgotten.'

'However, the Oracle knew of it, and I learned about its existence from our prisonner. By completing the ritual, I have unleashed the power of the Empyrean upon this sector.' He turned to a little man who wore a band of metal around his skull to hide the third eye on his front. 'Navigator Cerurr, what is the state of the Warp ?'

'It is screaming,' answered the Navigator with an high-pitched voice. 'The storm has risen again, and this sector is now hidden and unreachable for those who need the Astronomican's light. But _we _are not so limited. _We _know how to ride the tempest.'

'Precisely,' said Arken. He pushed a button, and an image of the world below appeared on the holographic display. The planet was falling apart, torn by forces beyond human ken.

'Do you see, my brothers ? Isleas stood at a crossway of the Empyrean, and now the energies we have liberated travel through these same passages that the Imperial settlements use. They are trapped now. We have summoned a Warp Storm, brothers. Now, the hundred worlds that make this part of the Imperium are cut from the rest of it. They cannot travel using the Warp, and astropathic communications are crippled. They are still protected by whatever military forces they had when the Storm began, and there may be loyalist ships in transit that were trapped as well and may assist them …'

Arken lurked on his throne, looking at the image of the world he had killed with feverish eyes :

'But for all intents and purposes, all worlds in the Trebedius Sector are _utterly_ _defenceless before us._'

There was a moment of silence, as the understanding and implications of what the Awakened One had said dawned in all present. Then the room bursted out in bloodthirsty laughter, calls for war, suggestions as for the best means to enact horrors upon the population of the sector, and disputes over who should have the honor to lead the first assault they would make.

Arken let them continue for a minute, then raised his hand. Silence came back immediately.

'As much as we would all like to start campaining right now, we need to select our targets with care. The Storm will not last forever, and by the time it does, I intent us to be ready to face the Imperium's retribution. We will strike at the most valuable – and thus well-defended – targets. We need supplies, slaves, and if we can, subjects who can refill our ranks. Our gene-vaults are full with the gene-seed of our brothers who fell during the Exodus and whose legacy was still salvageable. All of this means that we cannot simply roam around killing everything in sight. This is a _campain_, brothers. I _will _have order and discipline among the Forsaken Sons.'

Arken pressed another button, and the image of Isleas' corpse was replaced by the map of another system.

'I have read the data we have on the Sector, and found our first target. We are, as of now, sailing toward what is known as the Mulor system : two hive-worlds sustained by an agri-world and providing the workforce of a forge-world. This is an excellenttarget, that will provide us with everything we will need to continue our war against more protected systems.'

'Navigator, how long until we reach the Mulor system ?'

Cerurr looked at the map, taking in the numbers floating around it, and calculated quickly.

'It will depend on a lot of factors, my Lord … but, in my estimation, we should reach it in a month at worst. If we are luckier, it may only take two weeks or so.'

'Do not risk the ship's safety, or yours, for speed, Cerurr. The _Hand of Ruin _is the most valuable thing for the Forsaken Sons, but it is useless without you and your kindred.'

'As you wish, my lord,' answered Cerurr, bowing. The little Navigator then left the room, carefully avoiding bumping in any of the Astartes present. Once the door had closed behind the mutant, Arken turned to Merchurion's stand-in, a servitor whose senses were connected to the tech-priest. Merchurion was too busy repairing the armor of the Astartes to be physically present at the meeting.

'Techno-Adept, I will need to talk to you in detail about some of our campain's points.'

'I will wait for your visit,' answered the servitor in a dead, monotonous voice.

'Good.' Arken turned back to the Astartes :

'Does anyone have any question ?'

A leader of the World Eaters rose from his seat :

'Is this really necessary, Arken ? We are Astartes. We are the galaxy's greatest warriors. We are not _pirates _or _scavengers_ ! We kill whoever we want and we take whatever we desire !'

'If we do like you say, Alexandre,' answered the Awakened One in a cold voice, 'we will _die_. In _vain._ I do not want that.'

'What do you want, then, Arken ? We will all die someday. Death in battle is our fate.'

'What do I want ? I want the Imperium to _pay _for what it has done to us. I want to see the Imperial Palace _ruined by my hands ! _I wants ten thousand billion souls screaming in pain in the name of my vengence ! I want to watch as the _galaxy burn__s__ !_'

Arken took a deep breath, and calmed down. His outburst had silenced Alexandre.

'But I will not have any of this if I die with an empty bolter in my hand because my armor was too damaged to stop a las-round, without any brother at my side because they will all have died in poorly planed wars. There _will _be battles, and there _will _be glory … But you all _will _obey my orders, or I so pledge by the Octed, I shall kill you myself before the loyalists can claim that honor. Now, go. Train your men. Prepare yourself. We are at the start of a campain against _one hundred worlds_. Do not underestimate the challenge this will represent.'

'They are only mortals,' groaned Alexandre. The other leaders looked at him, then at Arken, uncertain of what his reaction would be, but the Awakened One simply said :

'For one thing, Alexandre, there _could_ be Space Marines out there. For the second, how many Astartes do you think have died at mortal hands during the rebellion ? I could tell you, you know. Serixithar told me _the exact number_. Do you want to know it ? Do you want to know how many of your brothers died at the hands of mortal soldiers during the war for Ultramar, when your Primarch used precisely the tactic you suggest and underestimated them exactly like you do ?'

The World Eater paled, and shook his head.

'Good. Remember : mortals are our inferiors … but they can still be a threat. You are all dismissed.'

Hours later, alone in the strategium, Arken was still reading data-slates. He had ordered all the data they had about the entire sector to be sent to him, and he intended to have finished it before they reached the Mulor system. Not needing any sleep was something _really _useful when planning a war, and he had no doubt it would be just as useful during the actual campain that it had been during the Exodus.

_I wasn't certain you would succeed, you know._

Arken paused in his reading. He looked around him, and, seeing that he was still alone, sighed.

'Look like I will have to ask Asim to reinforce these seals.'

_It would be pointless. My essence is already soaking this ship. No mortal sorcery can cleanse it now._

'Something tells me that killing you would do the trick.'

_Oh, yes, but are you willing to lose your Oracle over something like this ? It is thanks to me that you obtained the victory of this day. No, Arken, you are too dedicated to your cause. You will have to endure my voice._

'What do you want ?'

_The True Pantheon is pleased by your actions, Arken. The Storm will give my brethren a chance to walk the Materium on many worlds. Do you realize what you have accomplished ? Even if you just waited for the Storm to calm, you would still have killed billions of the Anathema's slaves._

'It is not just killing I am after, Serixithar.'

_Then, as the scion of the Blood God said : _what _do you want ?_

Arken smiled, the sight a terrifying parody of the expression that would have sent cold sweat running the back of any Astartes who would have seen it and make lesser beings faint.

'I want _power_, daemon. The power I need to exert my vengence. And power takes many forms : martial skill, psychic abilities, weapons, slaves, vehicles, soldiers, ships, allies, reputation … I will take everything I can, and I will use it all to hurt the Imperium as badly as I can. _That_ is what I want.'

… _and I am beginning to think that you just might get it._

* * *

It is done ! The chapter is complete.

It will probably be a while (two - three weeks) before I can publish another one. I have a report to write for college, and it's going to take most of my free time for the next week.

As usual, please review if you have liked it, or tell me what's wrong otherwhise. I am a little dissatisfied with how this one came out, but for the love of Chaos I cannot say why, so any advice would be appreciated.

Zahariel out !


	4. Chapter 4 : The Empyrean's Hold

Hello everyone !

Just finished _Vengeful Spirit _by Graham McNeil. It is good. That's all I can say without spoiling it for you.

Here is another chapter of the Forsaken Sons' story. In this one, I am trying something a little different, but I will return to more 'classic' chapters after.

I would like to thank the following people for their reviews :

Heir of the Void : glad that it pleased you. And yes, that was the purpose of the Storm. By the time it dies off, the Sons will be ready to survive in the newly-reformed Imperium of Man.

Killerison : thank you ! I will keep this story going for a long time, I think.

Lightning King : Yes, character development for Chaos characters is something a bit lacking in Warhammer 40k fiction. They are mostly used as one-dimensionnal villains - and, well, it makes sense, because they _are _villains. Still, there are books about them, like the Night Lord serie by ADB and the Word Bearers by Ben Counter.

Well, that's it for now. I will see you again at the end of the chapter !

* * *

When the warp-storm hit the Mulor system, it made its arrival known in the typical fashion of all things that hail from the Empyrean : in screams and death. Millions died in the first hours, and many more in the following weeks.

The astropaths aboard the ship _Lover of the Moon _died in agony when daemons ripped them apart from within. The ship, that had carried food from the agri-world to the hives of Mulor Prime and Secundus, was lost to the creatures of the Warp, the agony of its crew fueling the tempest. In the hive-cities, ten million people would suffer the throes of famine as the supplies they needed never arrived.

The few ships that the system still had for its defence were lost when hundred of crew members went crazy and detonated the Warp engines of their ships, weakening the veil between reality and the Empyrean even further.

On the forge-world C2746-DSS885, or Mulor Tertius as the Administratum called it, a single line of randomized code suddenly gained self-awareness, and began to spread to all systems of the planet, causing entire forges to stop working and two of them to explode. Dozens of servitors had their program overwritten by the anomaly, and began to attack the tech-priests who were already faltering from the scrap code assaults on their own systems.

In the hives of the twin hive-worlds, nightmares plagued the people, driving them to insanity and causing riots that set entire districts in flames. The earth shook under the hold of the Empyrean's powers, sending towering buildings to the ground. The Arbites sent to restore order were met by thousand of crazed rioters, screaming unholy words and brandishing primitive weapons. The governors decreted martial law, and sent the PDF troopers to quell the rebellion. Soon, reports came back of entire platoons of Arbites and PDF joining the madness, starting to kill everything they came across.

The Mulor system had been spared the worst of the war between Horus and the Emperor. They had sent soldiers to help the Imperial war effort, but the people hadn't seen any battle themselves.

That peace was over.

* * *

Lord Governor Valens Tarsis, ruler of Mulor Prime, once General of the 147th Libertis Regiment, was a man who had fought many wars during his time in the Guard. He had fought for the Imperium in the Great Crusade as part of the 742th Expeditionary Fleet, alongside a Company of the Iron Hands. He had helped the Astartes to free the people of the Mulor system from their tyrannic overlords, establishing instead the reign of the Imperial Truth. The wounds he had suffered in the final assault on the overlords' stronghold, however, had meant the end of his military career. He had lost his right leg and arm in the explosion of his command Chimera, and the right side of his skull had been so horribly damaged that only the personnal intervention of the Iron Hands' Apothecary (or Iron Priest, as he had called himself) had saved the old soldier's life. But the heavy augmentics he now wore in replacement were mainly focused on keeping him alive, not making him able to fight again. Other generals would have kept their command, but Valens believed that a commander ought to be able to fight at his men's side if he wanted to be worthy of their obedience, and he had resigned from his prestigious position. In return, he had been granted governorship of the world he had freed, and had ruled it since then for almost a century. The augmentics and juvenat treatments meant that he was still as physcally fit that he had ever been since he had been crippled, and his mind was as sharp and unforgiving as it had ever been. Valens 'Iron Teeth' Tarsis wasn't exactly _loved _by his people, but they did _respect_ him.

'What in the name of bloody Terra is _that _supposed to mean ?!'

The Governor's iron fist crushed on the table, sending cracks on the priceless marble. The communication officer who had just delivered him his report looked at him, visibly intimidated.

'The … the PDF are formal, my Lord. Some of the troops we sent to quell the riots have joined the rebels. They … they said that the men in question looked … _"possessed" _'.

'I heard you the first time,' grunted Valens. Seeing the man cringe, he sighed. 'That was a rhetorical question, don't worry about it. Stay focused on what's actually important. Do we have any news of the squads sent to retake control of the Astra Telepathica's tower ?'

'Only a few words in the last hour,' answered another operative. 'We cannot establish a stable vox-liaison with them … but it doesn't seem to be going well. Should I send them reinforcements ?'

The Governor pondered the question for a few seconds. He had taken command of all military forces on the planet when the Warp storm had hit them, but he didn't have much to work with. The Arbites and the PDF, alongside his own honor guard from his old regiment … all in all, he had perhaps twenty thousand soldiers. On a planet that supported ten billions people, that was but a drop in an ocean of potential rioters, but the world's compliance had gone without an hitch once the tyrannic dynasties had been toppled, the people acclaiming their liberators. They had seen no reason to leave behind a strong complement of troops, and the regiments that had been raised from the world had long been sent to help the Imperium.

So, as much as he hated the idea of letting his men die, Valens couldn't afford to spread his troops even more thinly. On the other hand, if the few reports they had about the tower were correct, preventing the situation there from worsening could very well be the most important battle on the entire world. Valens didn't believe in daemons, but he had heard reports of the horrors unleashed by the Architraitor Horus and his servants during what was coming to be called the Heresy …

The Governor took his decision. Turning his glance to another operator, he said in a stern voice :

'Send this message to the artillery : the tower of the Astra Telepathica is to be considered lost to the enemy and impossible to salvage. Raze it to the ground.'

'But, my lord, we have soldiers inside the tower !'

'And I fear that they will be grateful we give them a quick death. Do it!'

The operator turned back to transmit the Governor's order. Valens knew full well what he had just ordered. Without astropaths, even when the Warp storm ended, they would still be cut off from the rest of the Imperium. He would have to hope that some of the private psykers used by the richest nobles on Mulor Prime would survive the chaos …

Wait. What was that, in the sky ? Wasn't that a trail of flame coming down, amidst the madness of the Storm ?

'Throne of Terra,' breathed Valens. 'These are drop-pods !'

'My Lord ?' asked one of the surrounding officers. 'What's wrong ?'

'Give me that auspex !' he shouted, ripping it off the man's hands. He pointed the engine toward the trail of fire, and magnified the image. Yes, these were Astartes drop-pods. A flare of hope rose in his chest. With the help of Space Marines, he could still save this situation. He could …

Valens Tarsis recognized the emblem on the falling crafts, and a cold hand tightened around his heart. This was the heraldy of the Sixteenth Legion, the greatest traitors of all.

The Sons of Horus had come, to avenge the death of their father at the Emperor's hands.

If the old man had known how wrong he was, he would have been even more worried.

* * *

_I feel the Butcher's Nails scratching at my brain, sending surges of pain through my mind. This is Angron's gift and curse, and to bear it is to be a slave to the urge to kill. The crude implants can never be removed, and they gnaw at our brain, stimulating our bloodlust while suppressing all other pleasures and joys._

_I see Alexandre before me, clapsed in the wall of the drop-pod. He is leader of my pack, for he is strong in battle. But he is a fool. I heard him challenge Arken's authority, and this enrages me. The Awakened One knows better than us how to wage war. Once, we could have planned it ourselves … but that was before the Eightfold Path, before the Nails … before Angron._

_The Nails punish me for daring to doubt the one who gave me to them, but I cling to my thoughts stubbornly. It is difficult, more and more so as time passes. Constant pain has eroded my mind, and I know it. It is _not_ a pleasing knowledge._

_Only in battle can we find peace, only in blood can we find release. I remember Alexandre as he was once : a great commander, lord of a thousand of us. Look at him now : little more than an enraged beast, that must be contained by its master's will until it is time to unleash it. His warriors have splintered, forming the packs aboard the _Hand of _Ruin. This is what we have become … this is the Twelth Legion's new face. _

_The world below us is aflame with chaos and destruction, even before we first step foot on it. These animals have turned against each other in an heartbeat of the Empyrean. To think that we once thought for such cattle ..._

_My brothers think that we are being honored by being sent first, but they are naïve. I know why Arken sent us first. He wants to know if we can still be useful in spite of the rage that rules us now … if we can still be controlled. My squadmates and the other World Eaters deployed in this strike at the enemy's command force are a trial of our capability._

_I do not want to be found wanting, but the Nails care nothing for Arken's designs. All they want is blood. Arken knows that. Sometimes I wonder if there is anything he does _not _know._

_A drop-pod's fall isn't precise. We will crash away from our target, in the middle of a district filled with civilians. This is Arken's intent. Can we ignore the urge to kill long enough to find our prey ?_

_I do not know, but this will be interesting, at least._

* * *

Valens watched in mute horror as the drop-pods fell across his city. He had heard the reports about the Massacre of Isstvan, about the Heresy and how it had ended. But the Traitor Legions were supposed to have been pushed back into the Eye of Terror, trapped in that hellish realm ! How could they be here ?!

'My Lord,' said one of his guards. 'We need to get you to safety.'

Valens turned to the man.

'I will not abandon my people, soldier. They need me here to coordinate the battle.'

'These are Astartes, my Lord ! They are going to tear through our defences like paper. If you die, the planet will be lost !'

The man's words burnt with the acid of unwelcome truth. Only his authority had prevented the terrified Imperial forces to break apart. As much as the notion repugned him, he needed to escape or there would be no hope of mounting any resistance against the traitors.

'Then where you suggest we go ?'

'We need to leave the palace. If we can hide in the districts that have not yet fallen to the chaos, we can set up another base of operations. You ! Hurry up and take the portable vox ! We are leaving !'

Less than a minute later, Valens was led by his guards through one of the palace's evacuation tunnels. The imposing building had been constructed under the command of one of the dynasties of the pre-compliance era, and was ripe with such hidden ways. The one they were following would lead them to the cave of a bar in the neighbourhood, opposite to the point where the drop-pods had landed.

* * *

_The drop-pod hits the ground, and the shock is enough to nearly knock me out. But the Nails won't let me fall unconscious, not when there is so much prey at hand. I can smell their fear; it is a scent that pleases my mechanical tyrants … _

_The doors open, and we are released. Arken has sent us all to this place ; he must hope that at last one of us will remember the orders he gave. That is smart of him._

_I raise my chainaxe as I charge out, following Alexandre's lead. The weapon is in a perfect state : I have found out that maintaining my gear is one of the few activities that diminish the pain of the Butcher's Nails. Not a lot, but enough to make it bearable between the kills._

_But now, it is time to spill blood. There are mortals around us, running away from the impact. Ignorant fools, no one runs from the World Eaters !_

_I am on them, my chainaxe bites into flesh, I tear them apart, I hear their screams of fear and pain, the taste of blood on my tongue is intoxicating …_

_NO ! I must stay in control ! I force down the rage, the fury. The pain redoubles, made even worse by the fact that I was almost _free _of it for a moment. The Eightfold Path _demands _me to kill, to abandon myself to the red veil's embrace, but I deny it. It is a futile struggle, and I know it. Many among the Legion tried to resist the changes wrought upon us by the Nails, but even an Astartes cannot live in endless torment without something breaking. In the end, those who do not die soon enough will become mindless beasts, capable only of killing and killing and killing and …_

_Stay. In. Control. Focus. On. The. Mission._

_I look around myself, still wet in the blood of my victims, and find the scene I was expecting. Most of my brethren have lost control of themselves, and are indulging their bloodlust upon the helpless populace of this city. The wind brings me the scent of ashes and blood, and I can taste the power of the Warp in it. The Storm has touched this world too. It has driven the people of the slums insane, forcing them to kill to alleviate the pain … Just like us._

_I am surprised to see that Alexandre, too, is still in control of himself. He looks at me, and each of us recognizes that the other is still sane. There is no time to waste, our quarry must already be running. We make our way toward the palace, ready to kill. There is only two of us at first, but more of the Astartes deployed follow us as we advance, drawn to us like sharks are drawn to blood as we tear apart the defenceless mortals that dare to stand in our way. My brothers know, on some primitive level, than following us will give them the opportunity to kill more worthy foes. That, too is an image of my Legion's future. I am glad I will not be here to see what happens to the bulk of the Twelth's forces in the Eye of Terror. Perhaps … perhaps they are already all dead, after killing each other while screaming to the skies of a warp-consumed world ? Perhaps we are all that remains of Angron's sons ?_

_The Nails tear at me, and I launch myself forward. There is a barricade before us, blocking the entrance of the castle, manned by human soldiers with las-guns. They see us charging them and they raise their weapons, shooting against us with no hope for their frail guns to hurt our power armor._

_These are no cowards. They do not run, nor do they beg. I can taste their fear, its stench is overpowering, almost stronger than the smell of blood, and yet they do not break._

_A commendable effort, but ultimately futile. I am on them in a second, and they are dead in the next. Alexandre is just behind me, and I can feel his gaze upon my back. It makes my scar aches, the one I suffered when we ran from Terra. It is a mark of shame among my brothers, to carry a scar on this part of your body. _

_There are whispers in the wind, over the tune of the Nails. That is the Warp speaking to me. I know better than to listen, of course, but they do not try to tempt or distract me. They are telling me where is our prey. It is trying to escape us, running away ? Why ? One who leads soldiers such as these should be ready to die at their side, should he not ?_

_I break from the rest of my brothers, letting them run toward the castle's center. Alexandre notices my move, but he makes no attempt to stop me. He must think I am giving in to the Nails, and searching for closer prey than our quarry … perhaps he is right. Perhaps the whispers are merely a trick of the Nails to make me break sooner. I do not know if that is the case. I do not even know if I care any more._

_I walk through the corridors, no one standing in my path. The walls are covered in dried blood … the palace has been breached before. How long have the riots outside being going on ? Weeks ? Months ? I do not remember how long the journey lasted from Islea, and even if I did, it would not tell me how long this planet has been under the Storm._

_The whispers lead me forward, and the pain of the Nails recedes as I follow. I am not sure I _could _stop following them now, even if I wanted. The relief from the pain is just … overwhelming. _

_I sense something on my right, and I hurl my chainaxe at it without a thought. There is only a wall on its path … but it collapses under my weapon, revealing a hidden way through the palace's walls._

_The whispers turn into shouts, and I know that the quarry is there. I howl in answer to the voices of the Warp, and start running down the tunnel. The voices have led me here so that I may accomplish Arken's will … It seems my lord has the favour of the Octed._

_That is what the whispers were : the voice of the Warp, driving me to my prey. The warp-born have taken hold of this planet, and in their grip all shall offer them skulls, be them their foes' or their own. It does not matter to the Eightfold Path._

_All that matters to them is that blood keeps on flowing. The sons of Angron are devoted to fulfill this urge and now we do no longer have anything to restrain us. _This _is our purpose. _This _is our way. _This_ is freedom : to kill anyone daring to oppose us, to unleash our fury against our foes, to …_

_To ..._

_No. _

_This is no "freedom". _

_This. Is. Slavery._

_And I know, deep into my soul, that I will never be able to escape these chains._

* * *

The group stopped in its tracks when they heard the dreadful sound coming from behind them, quickly followed by the sound of ceramite boots hitting the ground in broad steps. The soldiers took position, half of them preparing to make a stand while the others forced the Governor to continue.

But Valens took a glance of the enemy before he was forced to start to run as well as his augmentics allowed him. It was a single towering giant in power armor, wielding a chainaxe and covered in blood. Despite the gore, Valens recognized the color pattern of the traitorous Astartes, white and blue, and his fears were made real as he confirmed what the fragmented reports he had received from the soldiers left upstairs had told him. This was a World Eater, one of the Twelth Legion's warriors. A son of Angron. Death made flesh, driven to insanity by forbidden techno-arcanes that had nearly brought censure to the Legion even before the Heresy.

Valens' guards were quite possibly the best soldiers he had under his command. Like him, they were veterans of the Imperial Guard, dispatched to serve as his retinue after their predecessors had retired. They had fought together on a dozen campains before being sent to him. There were ten of them, armed with the best weapons the Imperium could provide to normal men, willing to give their lives to defend their lord. The old man felt a surge of pride at the sight.

In perfect synchronization, they raised their weapons and opened fire.

* * *

_The weapons of the paper-skins are more powerful than those I have faced before, and I feel the pain of las-burn on my chest. The pain is laughable, however, compared to what I have endured under the Butcher's Nails._

_These soldiers are wearing actual armor instead of the dresses that the others had to go with. They move like fighters, too, used to the arena of war. They will make good sport._

_I strike at one of them, but he dodges and I miss. I _miss _? This is not normal. This is not supposed to happen. I am Astartes, and a son of Angron. A mere mortal shouldn't be able to avoid my blows. That is impossible, and yet it has happened, and the Nails bit in my brain for that failure to draw blood._

_The soldiers keep firing at me, and at such a close range their shots are actually hurting me. The possibility that I may very well die here dawns on me, and for a fraction of second I am tempted to simply let them kill me, to let go of this existence, to find true peace at last ..._

_The Nails sense my weakening resolve, and it makes them scream. The pain is unbearable, I want it to stop, and there is only one way to make it so …_

_The Red Veil falls on my eyes, my thoughts are stopped by the rage, I cannot think anymore, kill, kill, killl !_

_Everything goes red … and I am lost to the tune of the Butcher's Nails._

* * *

Governor Valens winced as he heard the screams of those he had left behind. He felt tears forming in his only biological eye, but forced them back. There would be time for mourning later, _if _they ever get out of this tunnel alive.

He had little doubt that the planet was lost. If _Traitor Astartes _came on top of everything else, they wouldn't be able to maintain order, and the entire world would fall to chaos and anarchy, easy prey for the renegades. But by the Emperor's name, he was going to make them _fight _for it. They would pay a price in Astartes' blood for the planet that had been placed in his care.

They emerged amidst ruins, the building atop the tunnel having be destroyed in the earthquakes that had followed the opening of the Storm. The air resonated with the screams of the dying and the mad, and the sound of bolter fire from the palace. It appeared the kindred of the monster that had followed them in the tunnel had found the rest of the communication officers, those who had stayed behind to help monitor the retreat of the forces dispatched across the planet.

'Where do you suggest we go now, lieutnant ?'

'We have to go to the rendez-vous point, sir. All forces who received our last message must be disengaging and retreating to it. There, we will be able to determinate our next course of action.'

That actually made Valens chuckle. The soldier looked at him, afraid that the old man had finally lost his mind after all he had seen this day. But the Governor-general shook his head, and said :

'There is only one course left to us, boy : we fight until we die, and hope to take with us as many of these bastards as we can.'

* * *

_I wake up suddenly, the veil lifted from my mind. All of my body hurts, except my head. For the first time in decades, the Nails are silent._

_I force myself to stand, feeling blood dripping from my many wounds. I can taste the coppery liquid in my mouth too, the rich flavor of Astartes' life. Did the humans' weapons cause internal bleeding ? I had not thought their lasguns capable of doing such damage. Aren't las-bolts supposed to cauterize the injuries they inflict ?_

_I look around, and I see the corpses of my victims. The soldiers have been hacked apart like cattle, rended limb from limb. It is difficult to see in such a mess, but I know that none of them tried to flee. They fought like true warriors … and I killed them like a beast. A rabid animal._

…

_The prey has escaped. I must find it. It cannot have gone far._

_I try to reach the rest of my brothers, to warn them that our quarry is away from the planned zone, but my vox only returns static. I do not know if that is because I am too deep underground, or because it has been damaged. It does not matter, though. I will continue even if I have to do it alone._

_**You are not alone.**_

_What was that ?_

* * *

Their journey through the streets wasn't an easy one. Several times, Valens and his guards had to open fire on the rioters who were hurling themselves at the armed men, screaming insanly before being promptly gunned down. Somehow, the Governor suspected that the invaders were to blame for the madness that had overtaken his world. It seemed impossible : one couldn't control the Warp. It was pure chaos and madness, and only the mutants of the Navigator Houses could peer into it without losing their very souls.

But the betrayal of Horus had seemed impossible too. In a universe where the Emperor's brightest son could turn to darkness, everything was possible, especially the worst.

Survivors who had somehow clung to their sanity joined them. At first, the lieutnant was opposed to letting these people slow them down, but a glare from Valens had convinced him otherwhise. The Governor may consider his planet doomed, and its people with it, but he would be damned before he abandonned them.

'What's happening, lord Governor ?' asked one of the men that had joined with them. 'Why is everyone going crazy ? Has the Emperor abandonned us ?'

Valens shook his head. He didn't understand how so many people had started to refer to the Emperor as some divine entity since the civil war. But it gave them hope, something to cling to in a galaxy that made less sense every day. So, he didn't say that the Emperor couldn't help them because He was trapped on the Golden Throne, maimed by His son. He didn't tell them that the Imperium couldn't help them because of the Warp Storm. Instead, he put his flesh hand on the man's shoulder, and said :

'I do not know, citizen. But whether or not He can still hear us, we will fight in His name. Heretics walk this world, doubtlessly responsible for the trouble we endure. I can promise you this : they will pay for their crime. The Imperium _will _punish them.'

He didn't say that, although he believed his own words, he doubted very much that the retribution would be enacted in time to save them.

_We will do our best_, he thought. _If that isn't enough … may the Emperor protect them._

Suddenly, a blood-chilling scream filled the air, freezing the little convoy on place. A few seconds later, the soldiers snapped out of their trance and turned in the direction of the horrible sound. Valens thought that he recognized the howl, that it was that of the Astartes that had found them in the secret passage, but it couldn't be. That scream was too inhuman to be coming from a Space Marine, traitor or otherwhise.

He turned as well, and saw something out of his darkest nightmares. A lurching creature, wearing a parody of the Astartes' armor the color of freshly spilled blood, covered in thorns and spikes. It stood, immobile, a screaming chainaxe held aloft it. Two chiropterean wings rose from its back, and two horns had torn through its helmet, while two orbs of red fire burnt through the helmet's visor. This wasn't a Space Marine … but it bore some twisted likeliness to the World Eater Valens' bodyguards had sacrificed themselves to slow. In fact, the Governor could see the image of a world being chewn on by a great jaw on the creature's shoulder. The color of the armor had changed, but this was the emblem of the Twelth Legion.

In an instant, the creature moved, and it was on them. Its chainaxe ripped apart the soldiers that rose their weapons against it, while its free hand, clawed like the paw of an ancient death-world alpha predator, cut through the civilians' flesh with ease. Valens felt his heart scream at the sight, and he knew in his soul that he wouldn't survive this day.

So be it, then. If he was going to die, it would be fighting. The old man drew his own ceremonial chainsword with his metallic arm, and brought the weapon to life. Instantly, the infernal creature shifted its gaze at him. The old man held the glare of the creature, his weapon held steady. He would not show it his fear. He would die standing, in honor.

The beast jumped at him, and he barely managed to deflect its first assault. The shock nearly sent his weapon away from his grip, but the Iron Priest's work held steady. He avoided another hit, then a third, while the rest of the people around him either ran or, in the case of the few soldiers remaining, tried to take aim at the creature without risking to harm him. Valens wanted to scream at them to take the damn shot, that to bring that monster down would be worth his life, but he couldn't. He could sense that a moment's distraction would be all it would take for the creature to end him.

Then, he was forced to block the enemy's weapon directly. With a scream of agonized metal, his chainsword shattered under the impact, and the backlash sent him flying away, crashing on the street with his metallic arm ruined. He tried to stand, but felt the burning claw of the creature close on his neck, lifting him up until he stared directly in the burning pits of its eyes. He felt the breath of the beast, hot and reeking of blood.

The moment seemed to stretch into eternity. Looking at the twin flames, Valens felt as if he was looking at the destruction of his world. Despair overwhelmed him. What hope was there for his people, when such monsters walked under the enemy's banner ? This wasn't a foe human soldiers could hope to defeat. This was an avatar of war, death and bloodshed. It would kill him, and then nothing would stop the traitors from doing with Mulor Prime as they wanted.

Valens Taris knew that he had failed. He felt the cold certainty of that fact fall on him and drap him like a mantle. Strangely, it also felt liberating, to no longer be able to fight. To no longer have to force his old body to keep going. Here, at the treshold of death, he could finally _let go_. Surely the Emperor would forgive him ?

Strange. Now where had that thought come from ? He wasn't a believer. He didn't trust in the words of the Lectitio Divinatus that all things were part of the Emperor's design. After all, how could He have known of his son's betrayal and not acted to prevent it ? That made no sense.

It took true faith, he guessed, to believe that life still had a purpose in a galaxy like the one they lived in. Well, now he had an answer for one question that had tormented him since he had heard of the «Church of the Emperor»'s existence.

But there was something else… something he needed to know. Something that had been gnawing at him since he had first learned of the great Warmaster's betrayal of all he had ever held dear.

'Why ?' he asked, his voice a barely audible whisper. 'Why are you doing this ? _What do you want ?_'

The daemon paused. It tilted its horned head, as if trying to figure out the question's meaning.

* * *

_What does he mean ?_

_What do I want ? Isn't that obvious ? I want ..._

_I want …_

_**To kill.**_

_That voice again. It has not spoken since its first words in the tunnel. As I walked through the ruined city, hunting my quarry, I felt it hum, though, singing to the tune of the Nails. Every moment during that walk has been a torture, my body burning with white-hot fire as it twisted itself into a new form. I am changing, that much I realize. But I do not understand. What is that voice ? And what is it that I am becoming ?_

_**I am the blood that runs through your veins. I am the death that you deliver to all those who stand in your path. I am your future, your destiny, as ordained by the Bloodfather. I am one of the Anointed, the Chosen of Khorne. I am the hunt of the prey, the fury of battle. I am the death of all things and the neverending war. I am …**_

_**Heker'Arn.**_

_The voice speaks again, and I see my reflection in the quarry's eyes. I look like a monster, a creature of the Warp. The pressure of the Butcher Nails falter for a fraction of second, and in that instant, I understand what it is that I am now. I have seen it before, first on Isstvan V, then during the shadow war across Ultramar and the Siege of Terra, and finally, during the Exodus. I know it, and recognize it, and know I am damned._

_I am as the Gal Vorbak of the Seventeenth Legion are. In superstitious cultures, I would be called a possessed man. But superstition has become reality, and a deamon runs in my blood now. It is not that surprising, in truth. The whole planet is bathed in the power of the Empyrean, and the slaughter of millions must be driving the warp-born crazy. Even though I am no psyker, it must not have been hard for the creature that is the voice to find a way into my soul. _

_And in that terrible moment of realization, I also understand what the answer to the quarry's question is._

_I open the jaw that has replaced my mouth, and I speak, the sound coming out a fusion of my own voice and the one in my head :_

_**'We want the galaxy to burn.'**_

* * *

A few minutes later, the street was covered in blood and the remains of the dead. Only three beings yet lived. The Possessed Marine, the daemon within him, and the old man who had once ruled Mulor Prime. The ex-Governor laid down in the rubble, his augmentic leg ripped off his body. Pain tore at his nerves, and he couldn't even gather the strength to crawl. He looked up at the monster that stood nearby, unmoving, and spat, in a voice ripe with despair and impotent rage :

'What are you waiting for ?! Kill me already !'

_**'You will not die yet, mortal. Not by our hand.'**_

'What are you saying, beast ?!'

_**'Our lord wants you alive. He has … plans for you.'**_

The Traitor, twisted Marine reached to its gorget with its clawed hand. It must have activated some kind of vox, for after a few seconds of static, Valens heard a new voice :

_' … squad, report.'_

_**'This is Hektor. I have him.'**_

_' … very well. Stay where you are. We have a lock on your sure he is still alive when the transport arrive.'_

_**'I understand.'**_

_'Do you now ? … Interesting. I am coming down myself. Our ETA is of ten minutes. Over.'_

The monstruous Astartes cut the link, then simply stood there, immobile like a statue. Valens asked :

'What is this about, traitor ? Are you hoping that I will aid you or your master in whatever mad goal it is you are pursuing ? I would rather die than aid a traitor !'

There wasn't any answer. For a few more minutes, the old, crippled man spat out insults at the creature, hoping to push it to kill him. Somehow, he felt that this would be a better fate than whatever the voice at the other side of the vox-link had in mind for him. But the traitor didn't move a muscle. Only its wings moved slightly under the winds caused by the burning of the city.

Then, out of the ruins that surrounded the improbable pair, other Traitor Marines emerged. They wore the colors of the World Eaters, although some of them had painted their shoulder paldrons black, hiding the heraldy of their Legion.

There were dozens of them, all covered in blood. Valens had seen Astartes fight many times during his time with the 742th Expeditionary Fleet. But the World Eaters showed nothing of the discipline and cold control of the Iron Hands. They walked like predators, sharks circling their prey, unsure of whether or not they should attack. The Space Marines were supposed to know no fear, and the berserkers of the Twelth Legion even less than the rest of the Emperor's Angels of Death, but these warriors were clearly wary of the monster that had called itself Hektor.

One of the growling Astartes walked near Valens' immobile body, his chainaxe twitching in his hand. Valens felt a surge of hope and fear mixed as he thought that the bloodthirsty warrior was going to kill him right now …

But the monstruous Astartes turned and stared straight at the transhuman soldier, forcing him to retreat with the lone pressure of its gaze. Still, other Traitor Marines were closing in on the fallen governor, their eyes filled with bloodlust. Valens could feel their intent to kill, even from several meters away.

The winged creature walked to his side and stood there, like a twisted, nightmarish parody of a guardian angel. But the other World Eaters weren't deterred.

* * *

_I see them enclosing on us, and I can feel that they are gone. All of them have given in to the Nails, only the impulse to kill matters to them now. The quarry is wounded, defenceless; even I am feeling the urge to crush him, to bathe in his old blood and take his skull …_

_**This one is a worthy foe. Old and wounded, yet cunning and tenacious. His skull would claim a place of honor on the Blood God's throne.**_

_And you aren't making it easier. Arken wants him alive._

_**What do his wishes matter to us ? Only the spilling of blood matters.**_

_Arken. Is. My. Lord. And. He. Wants. Him. Alive._

_**It is only by my power that you aren't feeling like your brain is on fire right now. Only I have the power to calm the pain, Hektor. You would do well not to deny me.**_

_If we kill him, Arken will kill us, or at least not use us ever again in such a critical mission. Would you deny us the right of taking hundred of skulls just so that the Bloodfather can have this one faster ?_

_**The future doesn't matter to the Blood God ! TAKE HIS SKULL !**_

_I force the voice away, silencing its pleas with all my will. It is not easy, but my mind is trained in resisting the temptation of bloodshed … oh yes it is. The daemon goes silent, and the pain starts to come back, but I welcome the change. The pain of the Nails is familiar, at least. _

_As I turn my attention back to my surroundings, I see Alexandre getting closer. He is holding his weapon with both of his hands, and the control I saw in his eyes earlier this day is gone. It is the Nails that control him now. His eyes are devoid of any emotion, any thought, any urge safe that of killing. This is what a son of Angron looks like when the Red Veil falls on his eyes … and only blood can lift it._

_Alexandre wants to kill the quarry, but I cannot let him. He can feel that I am an obstacle on the path of butchery, and it enrages him even further. It won't take long now …_

_My brother attacks, his axe aiming at my throat, seeking to decapitate me in a single blow. He is as fast as any Astartes can be, but to me, it seems that he is going in slow motion. The changes in my body are still in effect, even with Heker'Arn silenced._

_I block the attack with my bare hand, catching the blade between my clawed fingers. He tries to pull the weapon back to him, but I hold it in place. Shock finds its way on his face through the bloodlust. _

_He dared to attack me ?! __**We must destroy him ! **__I am his brother ! __**We will take his skull for that ! **__Has our Legion already fallen so low ?! __**We are no longer of the World Eaters …**_

_**We are of the Forsaken Sons !**_

_My right hand rises, still holding my own chainaxe. I cannot stop it. Alexandre sees it, and begins to push at his weapon with all his strength, trying to force his way through. The urge to kill is back, overwhelming my senses. The pain, the voice, they are both here, and I have no order to oppose them, no reason that may stall my … __**our **__hand …_

* * *

Valens gasped as he saw the towering monstruosity cleaves its own comrade apart. Astartes' blood spilled on the ground, burning through the pavement of the street. His mind reeled, failing to accept what he had seen. He knew, on some intellectual level, that Astartes had killed Astartes in the past. But it was something entirely different to witness such an utter _betrayal _with his own eyes. In a way, it was even worse than watching his planet die. _This _was the death of brotherhood, of all that the Imperium had ever stood for. _This _was the ultimate proof that the rebellion had been in the wrong, for even their own ranks were afflicted with fratricide.

_**'You will not touch this man, or we will take your skulls ourselves ! Are we clear ?!'**_

The beast roared, and the rest of the World Eaters scattered back amidst the ruins, no doubt seeking easier prey. Valens hated himself for the hint of relief that he felt at the sight. It would have been better to die there and now, he repeated to himself.

_**'Do not be so certain about that, mortal,' **_said the demonic Astartes as if it had read his thoughts.**_ The Warp-born are crowding this world. If you were to die here, your soul would be claimed by them, and only torment would await you. Enjoy your continued existence for as long as Arken allows you to keep it.'_**

Valens didn't answer the creature. How was this possible ? Had the monster read his mind ? Was it a psyker ?

As he pondered these questions, Valens heard a sound he had not forgotten : the sound of an Astartes' aircraft incoming. The last time he had heard it had been when the Iron Hands had reinforced the position where he had been injured.

This wouldn't be such a joyous occasion, of that he was certain.

A Thunderhawk wearing the livery of the Sons of Horus landed amidst the ruins, its pilot expertly dodging the larger pieces of rubble. Its engine slowed down but didn't stop. Valens recognized this for what it was : the sign that the craft was here for a pick-up in hostile zone, and not intending to remain here for any longer that was needed.

The door of the craft's bay opened, and Valens laid the eyes on the being responsible for the destruction of his world. Next to him, the monstruosity bowed its head to its lord in sign of respect.

* * *

_**We should kill him.**_

_He is strong. He deserves our allegiance._

_**The Anathema was strong, too.**_

_It is different. He is our brother, not some distant, treacherous, cowardly bastard. _

_**We are the destroyers of worlds ! We should not bow before anyone !**_

_He owns my loyalty, daemon. He earned it._

_**So did Alexandre. Will he meet the same fate ?**_

_I ignore the daemon's further taunts, and focus on my lord. He is not alone, of course. Damarion and the rest of his Terminator guards stand at his side. That much is to be expected; after all, he is walking a warzone. Even the Primarchs take guards with them on the battlefield, if only for the sake of appareances. Only Angron didn't. The Devourers, who should have assumed this fonction, were never more than a joke at the expense of the Legion's best warriors. They are all dead now, ripped apart on Terra. I remember seeing them die. Some of them fell to the Imperial Fists' guns; most, to Angron's own axe._

_Arken is bare-headed. I have not seen him wear his helmet since the events on Isleas. I have heard rumors aboard the ship, though. The crew whipsers that our lord hears the voices of the Warp, and that if he was to don his helmet, the voices would overwhelm him._

_My lord walks to the remnants of Alexandre. He lowers himself, and pick up the former Capain's severed head. As he rises, he holds it aloft, staring in the dead eyes of my brother._

_'Ah, Alexandre,' he says, his voice as emontionless as ever. 'I had such hopes for you … but it seemed you weren't the one.'_

_He drops the head, and turns to me. He is smaller than I._

_'And what is your name, warrior ?'_

_I force myself to speak alone, banishing the daemon's influence on my voice :_

_'I am Hektor, lord.'_

_'Hektor,' he repeats, nodding to himself as if recognizing my name. 'Yes, I remember that name.'_

_He approaches, and turns around me. I stay immobile, but I cannot stop a nervous spasm when I feel his armored hand stroking my wings. An image flashes before my eyes – I see him ripping my wings off – and vanish the moment he takes his hand away. He circles all around me and faces me again. Once more, he nods to himself, before looking at the quarry. A dead smile appears on his lips._

_'You found him, I see. Good.'_

_He lifts the mortal as if he weighted nothing, and peers into the old man's eyes. Despite the pain that robs him of the ability to speak, the former Governor still radiates defiance and rage. My lord examines the augmentics that make almost half the man's body, noticing that the arm has been ripped off._

_'Merchurion,' he says in his vox. 'I have found him. He is alive, but … damaged.'_

_I do not hear the reply, but I know the magos isn't pleased at the news._

_'Yes,' he answers. 'All the parts are here, at least. I will make sure they are brought to you.'_

_He gestures at the torn metal arm on the ground, and one of the Terminators takes up the piece of machinery. The Astartes then walks to my lord, and relieves him of the quarry. The prey has fallen inconscious, the pain finally forcing his brain to black out. I am envious of that. There is no escape from the Butcher's Nails. Sleep is denied to us, and the only oblivion we can find is that of death. The Nails do not let us fall for any other reason. _

_Arken turns back to me. The daemon in me feels his satisfaction, even though nothing on his face betrays it._

_**He knew. He knew what would happen.**_

_I agree with Heker'Arn. That is the only possibility. My lord knew that one of the World Eaters would receive the … 'blessing' of the Empyrean. _

_**He thought it would be Alexandre ? That fool was unworthy of such a blessing. Offering his skull to Khorne is honor enough for him.**_

_**But how could he know …?**_

_I feel the daemon prying into my mind, looking for information. When it finds out what it is looking for, it is _not _happy._

_**Sorcery ! Cowardice ! He is unworthy !**_

_I feel my armed hand rise without my command, and I struggle to stop it, but the daemon is too strong ! Arken' bodyguards aim their weapons at me … I cannot blame them for that. Only a firm command of their lord stops them from opening fire._

_Arken looks at me, unmoving, as if wanting to see how far I will go. I gather all of my will, and stop the chainaxe, blocking the weapon in place._

_**Let me kill him ! He is weak ! Those who need to use sorcery are unworthy of our allegiance !**_

_I fight, with all my will, trying to put the weapon down … but the daemon and I are of equal force, and the chainaxe stays immobile. Then, my lord speaks :_

_'You will not harm me, nor anyone under my servie … _Heker'Arn._'_

_The daemon releases its hold on my body, and I can hear it screaming in rage and disbelief. My lord knows its name, and thus can command it. No doubt he learnt it in the Oracle's Chamber, and to be defeated in such a way only furthers the rage of the devil in my soul._

_I bow my head to my lord in wordless thanks. He nods, then turns toward the aircraft, gesturing for his guards to follow. Half-way, he stops, and looks back at me._

_'Your brothers are still out there ?'_

_I nod in answer. He knows what they are doing, of course. They are killing. That is the Twelth Legion's way, the only one we know._

_'Would you rather come back to the ship with us, or stay here ? The second phase of the invasion will start soon.'_

_The second phase … I remember it from the briefings. Now that the Imperial forces are leaderless, Arken will send packs to high-value targets, with orders to loot everything that can be of use. These places may be defended yet. They may provide the opportunity of a worthy battle. Here, there are only defenceless civilians waiting to be butchered. My brothers could spend days hunting them, indulging their bloodlust, until the Nails release them and they can be taken back to the _Hand of Ruin. _They are useless to him now : a one-use weapon in the campain that has just begun._

_**That battle is not worth fighting. True enemies await for us elsewhere on this world.**_

_Heker'Arn speaks once more, drawn from its brooding by the perspective of battle. I agree with it. True battle awaits us elsewhere._

_**'We will come with you, and aid in the conquering of this world,' **__me and the daemon say together. After all, we both want the same thing :_

_Blood. Blood for the Blood God._

* * *

The Possessed Marine followed his lord in the Thunderhawk. Sitting at the command station, Perseus felt himself starting to sweat. The … creature … they had picked up alongside the Governor had an unnerving presence, to say the least. Perseus understood that the Astartes needed every weapon they could use, and the Warp-touched were powerful weapons indeed, but … It seemed too dangerous to use them. They bore within them the very monsters that had made the Exodus such an hellish journey.

Not that he would dare to say that out loud, of course. He may be the favorite pilot of the Awakened One's chief bodyguard, but he would still die the moment he doubted the lord's decisions.

He flew the craft back to the ship without incident.

* * *

Valens' flesh eye opened slowly, pain forcing him back into the realm of the living. He tried to move his head, but found out it was held in place by metal restraints. All his limbs were similarly bound.

'You are awake. Good. The procedure cannot be complete if you are not awake to report your sensations during the extraction.'

The voice was cold, metallic and entirely devoid of feeling. Valens knew that kind of voice, though this one had an hint of something far more sinister behind it : this was the voice of a tech-priest.

In the dim light, the former Governor saw his jailer.

_I am dead_, he thought. _I am dead and the Church was right : there is an hell after all._

The creature had the visage of a daemon, crafted in adamantium and looking at him with luminous , red eyes. A set of mechadendrites rose from its back, clacking and twisting as if hungry for his blood.

'Now, let the experiment begin.'

* * *

AN : Aaaaand here I am again.

I know Valens is a bit strange for a Governor, because he is - schocking ! - actually competent at his job. That's not something that's supposed to happen in the WH40K universe, I know. But this is just after the Horus Heresy, when the Imperium is actually manned by people who are good at their jobs and not their inbred descendants.

In this chapter, I wanted to take a look at how the World Eaters see the Forever War. It is a strange question, you may ask, because they are followers of Khorne, and thus want only to kill and are happy so long as the fighting continue.

You would be wrong.

The World Eaters are, in my opinion, those of the Traitor Legions who drew the absolutely shortest straw. They were turned into barbarians by their Primarch, who was such a bad father figure that they tore open their own skulls with the Butcher's Nails, hoping that this would help them understand him.

The usual traitor Space Marine fights for glory, for revenge, for survival. The Emperor's Children fight because they get high on sensation. The World Eaters ?

They fight because it is the only way to _make the pain stop_. That's not a way to live that let you keep your sanity for long.

Hektor knows the fate of his Legion is to devolve into mindless monsters. Well, I made sure that _he _would escape this fate ... and to do that, I had to make him into an even worse monster. Well, frak.

Anyway, in the next chapter, the conquest of the Mulor system will continue. Right now (as if, when I am typing this), I have not decided what will happen next. I have a lot of ideas, though. I am going to be on vacation from college in a few days, so I will be able to read and write a lot more.

As usual, please review if you liked what you read. Seeing that people enjoy what I write really helps me to keep going (if you have ever written something on this site, you know what I am talking about). If you didn't like it, tell me why !

Zahariel out.


	5. Chapter 5 : A Traitor's Bargain

And here comes another chapter. Not much action in this one, but don't worry, the next one will contain a lot more tension.

My thanks to those who reviewed the previous chapter :

Heir of the Void : yeah, Valens was pretty much damned from the moment he appeared. In fact, I had first planned to have him die, but somehow Hektor's mission changed to one of capture. Rest assured, though, that this isn't the last you will see of 'Iron Teeth'.

Lightning King : indeed, a base of operations is a necessity for warbands. In some case, a ship can suffice (the Black Legion itself doesn't have a world it calls home, only the _Vengeful Spirit_). The _Hand of Ruin _is big enough to act like this for a time, but Arken knows the value of a planet in his grasp, don't worry.

So, without any further delay, let's get to the story ! I will see you again at the end.

I do not own the Warhammer 40000 universe. It belongs to Games Workshop.

* * *

He missed dreaming. Not that he had ever had pleasant dreams, of course. But he had never realized how much more sleep was than just the recovery of one's physical stamina. Dreams helped to organize one's thoughts, to put things behind you and to go forward.

But he couldn't dream. His muscles were fuelled by a seemingly endless flow of stamina, and sleep was not only unneeded, but impossible for him. And while the advantages of that … _gift_, he supposed he should say, were quite considerable, sometimes not being able to sleep something off could be _annoying_.

Leaving the Oracle's Chamber with visions of the Warp engraved in his mind was definitely one of these times. Serixithar couldn't stop him from taking what he wanted, but the daemon could make it _difficult_. He was suffering a tremendous headache, and images danced before his eyes that do not belonged to this side of Hell.

'Lord Awakened,' greeted Asim. 'Are you alright?'

'I will be. How long was I in there, brother ?'

It was hard, almost impossible to keep track of time in the Chamber. Even his armor's chronometer went crazy in the room filled with the emanations of the Warp. That was why he ensured that a member of the Coven was waiting for him every time he visited the captive Daemon Prince. Using them like this was a waste of their capabilities, but he wasn't going to let anyone else near the Oracle. The risks were too great.

Still, it had surprised him when the leader of the Coven himself had volunteered for the task this time. Asim could easily had asked one of his brothers to do it – it was what hierarchies were for. Did the Thousand Son want to speak with him away from prying ears ?

'You have stayed in the Chamber for three hours, forty-seven minutes and twenty seconds,' answered Asim. 'I know we say that to you every time, but you really shouldn't spend so much time with that creature …'

' … Interaction with its kind only ever serves their goals,' finished Arken, who had heard the warning the exact same number of times he had gone to consult the Oracle. 'Yes, I know. But it is one of our greatest assets, Asim.'

The Sorcerer shrugged, the movement of his muscles amplified by his power armor.

'It is my job to warn you,' he said, dropping the subject. 'Did you at least find what you were looking for ?'

Arken looked at his brother, and his lips twitched into the dead smile that had become his only facial expression – with the rage he had unleashed at the late Alexandre – the Space Marine could make.

'Oh, yes,' he whispered. 'I have found that indeed. Walk with me, brother,' said the Awakened while starting to march toward the command deck. The Thousand Son followed his lord without question. They walked for a moment in silence, then Arken asked :

'So, what did you want to talk to me about ?'

Asim wasn't surprised by his lord's insight about the reason he had volunteered himself for the tedious duty of guarding the Chamber and counting the minutes. Even without the daemon's help, he had always had a keen mind.

'It is about the members of my Legion,' he said. 'There is … something going on in the Warp. I wanted to ask you before you entered the Chamber, but I … I suppose I was afraid of what Serixithar would reveal.'

'What exactly is troubling you and your brothers ?'

'It happened three nights ago. We felt a ... _change_ in our soul, lord. The flesh-change that has plagued our Legion since its very foundation has … stopped.'

'Well, that is good news, isn't it ? I remember hearing you mourning the loss of every single brother of yours that succumbed to it during the Siege of Terra.'

'Yes, but we do not know _why_, and that's what worry us. We do not know what's preventing our degeneration, nor if it will last.'

Arken looked at the helmeted face of his subordinate, seemingly seeing straight through the ceramite and into the Sorcerer's mind.

'You are afraid that your Primarch has made another deal with the Octed. That he has sold _something else _to the Architect of Fate in return for his sons' salvation.'

Asim nodded. His next words were laced with bitterness :

'I do not even know the details of the _first _deal he made when he saved us from the flesh-change after the Emperor found him. I do not know those of the _second_, made when Prospero burnt, either, only that it binds us to the service of the Lord of Change. And now he may have made a _third_. Me and my brothers aren't afraid, Arken. We are _terrified_. Terrified of what it means for us and for our brothers on the Planet of Sorcerers.'

Arken stopped, and looked at his brother.

'Serixithar showed me your Legion's fate, Asim. This wasn't what I was looking for, but it took pleasure to show it to me nonetheless. I know what happened, and I can tell you, if you are willing to hear it. But first, tell me : was any of your brother … _altered _when the rest of you were released for the flesh-change ?'

Asim looked back at him without a word, and Arken could almost see the blank look on his face.

'Apparently no. That is good, I need all Sorcerers I can find. Now, do you really want to know ?'

Slowly, Asim nodded, his hands tightening around his staff. He was scared, the lord of the Forsaken Sons could see that. But the sons of Magnus were not the kind to turn from the truth, as unpleasant as it may be. In this, they were similar to the Word Bearers, who had embraced the Octed despite the darkness its pantheon had promised to Mankind. Not that Arken would ever voice that though aloud, of course. It would enrage both of the two Legions' representatives aboard the _Hand of Ruin_. The Word Bearers considered the Thousand Sons to be fools who deluded themselves into thinking they were masters of the Great Ocean, while the sons of Magnus thought that the warriors of the Seventeenth were fanatics who were willing to enslave themselves to powers they didn't understand. The truth, as always, was something between the two.

'It is not your father's work that you felt through the Warp but your brother's. Ahriman found a way to save you and used it despite Magnus' warnings.'

'He succeeded, it seems,' said Asim carefully.

'In a fashion. For every Thousand Son who was saved, a dozen more were reduced to dust, their souls trapped in their armor, turned into automatons unable to move without the command of one of their still-living brothers. Magnus' fury was great, but the Architect of Fate stopped him from destroying Ahriman and his co-conspirators. Instead, your brother now wanders in the Eye of Terror, forsaken by his own Primarch. Not a soul in the galaxy knows exactly where he is.'

'The Rubric,' breathed Asim, staggering from the revelation. 'He had told me about it before we left for Terra, once our father had chosen his side in the rebellion. He said that once perfected, it would free us from the random mutations.'

'Well, it did. It is quite surprising that none of your brothers on board were destroyed by it, though.'

Arken didn't really care about the reason, only the result, but giving Asim a mystery to think of would bring his mind away from the horror of his Legion's fate. It worked. The Awakened One could almost see the gears of the Thousand Son's well-trained mind starting to turn.

'The spell must have had a different effect depending on the subject's strength. My brothers among us were already … _purged _by the Exodus. Those who survived it must have been strong enough to endure whatever the Rubric did to them. But really … only one Astartes out of twelve survived ?'

Arken shrugged.

'I don't know the real ratio, Asim. The visions of the Oracle aren't that precise. But I think it is a good estimate. For all it is worth, I am sorry.'

And he was. The Fifteenth Legion had been one of the most powerful of those siding with the Warmaster, despite their crippling when Prospero had been destroyed. Their sorcery was a potent weapon, and one that could have been put to great use against the Imperium in the Long War – as he had heard some of his brothers call the continuation of Horus' rebellion. Now, although the Legion of Magnus would be spared collapsing from the mutations, it was also reduced to a handful of true Astartes, on the verge of extinction. That was a real shame. That the Architect of Fate had allowed this to happen to the Legion that had sworn itself to His service only proved that one had to be careful when dealing with the Chaos Gods. They were powerful, almost limitlessly so, but they were also fickle and whimsical, or at least appeared that way from the point of view of their followers.

'I ... thank you for telling me that, Arken', said Asim at last, and the use of his name told the Commander that his brother meant it. 'This truth, however troubling it may be, is still better than the blades of doubt.'

Arken didn't say anything in response. They kept on walking, and finally arrived near the command deck. The heavily reinforced door was covered in arcane sigils put in place during the Exodus to protect this most critical section of the ship and guarded by two Astartes. One wore the livery of the Iron Warriors, the other the colors of the Emperor's Children. Arken was pleased to see that, at last, some of the packs were learning to work together.

The two warriors bowed to the lord of the Forsaken Sons, and the door opened. Arken and the leader of the Coven passed through, acknowledging the guards with a nod, and entered the _Hand of Ruin_'s command deck.

The place was bustling with activity, reports coming from the packs deployed on the world below alongside with demands for pix-feed and additional Prime was beaten, but, as the Space Marines had discovered, plundering a world with any efficiency was almost as complex as conquering it.

Since he had picked up Hektor and the former Governor a week ago, Arken had dispatched almost three hundred Astartes on the planet. They had secured landing zones for the aircrafts of the warband, and begun to bring in spoils to be brought aboard the _Hand of Ruin_. The gunships were being reduced to simple carriers, but it was for a good cause. Besides, they had already captured five shuttles from the planet that were unfit for Astartes deployment, but perfect for that kind of dull work. Already, empty storage rooms on the ship were beginning to fill with the product of Mulor Prime's ransacking. He had sent others to the rest of the system, with specific orders. Arken had planned for this campain during the weeks in warp transit, and he didn't intend to let anything of value slip from his fingers. The Forsaken Sons would bleed the Mulor system dry and leave stronger than ever.

To this end, all Astartes deployed had received a list of what the Forsaken Sons could use from the planet. Navigators. Astropaths. Sanctioned and rogue psykers alike. Mortal possessing useful skills. Supplies and weapons of any kind. Young males that were strong enough to endure the implantation process that would make them into new Astartes. Servitors that could be reprogrammed to serve the warband. Some of the strongest rioters, to be trained and armed in order to form a semblance of mortal army. Riches, too, in the form of jewels or precious metal, plundered from the highest towers of the hive-world, where its most privileged citizens had lived. Arken wouldn't have thought of the last one himself, but an Alpha Legion warrior had suggested it to him, saying that it could help them if they were one day brought to dealing with mortals.

With most military forces on the planet utterly destroyed by the riots and the World Eaters' beheading strike against their command, the packs competed for the Awakened One's favor by doing all they could to increase their own tribute. Merchurion had sent some of his adepts to keep track of what was entering the ship's coffers and which pack had sent it. There was no official competition going on, nor any reward promised, but the Astartes still did their best at what was essentially an entirely new exercise to them. They were soldiers and warriors, instruments of death and destruction. They weren't pirates … but they were doing a fine job of it nonetheless.

But despite the Astartes' newfound talent for looting, things weren't just running smoothly. Even as Arken just entered the room, the crew turned to him and presented him with a dozen requests for his intervention in situations that demanded his authority : packs on the verge of fighting each other for the same prize, mostly, a warrior of the Night Lords needing to be reminded that he wasn't on the planet to torture its people, and …

Yes. Here it was, the one request that he had known would be waiting, the one which was, despite all appearances, an opportunity for the warband. He took care of the others first. He ordered the warriors to start cooperate and share the loot if they were really that serious, gave a Word Bearer demagogue his permission to start preaching to the rioting masses, and told the Night Lord to stop his attics – there would be plenty of time for enjoyment once the planet had been stripped bare of all that could be useful. Then, he opened a vox-connection to the pack of former Sons of Horus who had asked for the Awakened One's advice on a sensible matter.

'This is Arken of the _Hand of Ruin. _Speak up, Lucian.'

'Lord Awakened,' came the answer, blurred by static yet still understandable. 'We have been awaiting you for an hour.' There was no critic in the Marine's voice, only mild curiosity and an hint of stress.

'I was occupied. Describe your situation.'

'I have nine brothers with me, two of them wounded. We are at the base of one of the city's spires, where this world's so-called 'elite' was inhabiting. There are still people inside, and they are well-defended.'

'Describe the defences,' ordered Arken.

'They have at least a hundred private soldiers in here, just at the entrance, equiped with weapons capable of piercing our armor. The ground here is covered in the bodies of the looters who tried to make a run for it. We could take them, but the simple charge to reach them would cost us, and doubtlessly there are more inside. Since you ordered us not to risk our lives unless we had no choice, I sent a request for your advice.'

Yes, Arken thought. This was what he had seen in the Chamber. The richest clan of this planet and the one family of rulers that had escaped purging when the Imperium had reclaimed the world, the Sertanov had survived by turning against the other dynasties, sacrificing much of their power and resources in the war of compliance. For this, they had been spared, though reduced to a simple merchant house. It had helped that they were considered one of the least ruthless bloodlines of Mulor Prime's overlords – at least that was the reason given in Imperial records.

Arken knew the true reason the Sertanov had been spared, however. It was simple and crude, as befitting of base humans : bribing. The Sertanov had paid the Adeptus Administratum accompanying the Expeditionary Fleet an obscene amount in return for their pardon, and it had been enough to forget millenia of exploitation and tyranny. The bureaucratic worms had been very efficient in their rewriting of history, to the point that even the people of the world had truly believed that the Sertanov had been paragons of virtue and righteousness in a world filled with greed and corruption before the Warp Storm and the Forsaken Sons destroyed their society. The iterators' manipulation skills could be frightening, sometimes.

How typical of the Imperium, Arken thought. This was all that the False Emperor built upon the foundations crafted by Astartes' sacrifices : lies and deceit. And the foolish masses of humanity gobbled it all, starving for His lies as much as the World Eaters did for blood. This was what had led the Warmaster to turn from his father and launch his own crusade to claim the galaxy for the warriors who had fought to conquer it.

And yet, here laid an opportunity. The Sertanov had been forced to abandon their ancestral keep when they had switched sides, but they had rebuilt it nearly perfectly in the new hive-cities, away from the centers of power. They had also reclaimed much of their former wealth and power over the decades, carefully hiding some of their more shady activities from the Governor's eyes. In both legal and illegal dealings, the Sertanov had become one of the most powerful forces of Mulor Prime's economy. Arken knew this thanks to Serixithar's visions, but also simply because he had spent hours reading the data on the cogitators they had seized from the local Administratum and Arbites. The fact that no one else had apparently noticed the evidence of the Sertanov's crimes in the official records indicated that the family hadn't abandonned the practice of bribing. And why should have they, when it had worked so well for them ?

Pressing a few buttons on the hololithic view, Arken brought up the image of the Sertanov spire. It wasn't a beautiful thing, at least not in his eyes. Protected from orbital bombardment by a void shield that had been activated the moment the storm had reached Mulor Prime – which was very illegal in itself – the tower was almost three kilometers high. It had endured the destruction that rampaged through the city, which was a little miracle. That miracle owed much to the squads of mercenaries and thugs that the Sertanov kept in their fortress and as much to the fact that the spire wasn't located with the rest of the high-born's demesnes. In fact, the fortress was almost a city in itself, isolated from the rest of the world and nearly self-sufficient, with thousands of people living their entire lives within its walls. There had been no plan of its insides in the cadastre – which must have cost another bribe to the family.

The bottom of the spire was heavily fortified indeed. Lucian couldn't hope to assault it with only his squad – in fact, attacking the spire with anything less than a full company worth of Space Marines would be painfully difficult and slow. But Arken didn't intend to attack.

'Lucian,' he voxed. 'I am coming down to your location with reinforcements. Do not do anything that may provoke the humans. I want to talk to them.'

'Acknowledged, Awakened One.' The sergeant cut the vox-link. Arken opened another :

'Techno-Adept. I need something from you.'

'Ask, Commander. The Omnissiah shall provide.'

'Tell me, Merchurion. How advanced are the repairs on that suit of Tactical Dreadnought Armor ?'

* * *

Sergeant Lucian didn't enjoy waiting. He understood the tactical necessity of it, of course, but he still didn't like it. His squad – he refused to think of it as a 'pack' as did others in the warband, for his brothers had been fighting alongside him far before they joined the _Hand of Ruin –_ didn't like it either. Since coming down on this dying world, they had been aching for a decent fight, and now that it seemed that one was finally being presented, the ache had become even more unnerving. They weren't World Eaters, but they wanted to fight ! They were born and bred for war, and only on the battlefield could they fulfill their purpose. Looting this planet was an … interesting and novel experience, but it couldn't compare to the exaltation of glorious warfare. He longed to put his bolter to use against a worthy opponent, to test his mettle and that of his brothers against an enemy able to fight back, to prove his value to the one who had dragged him and the rest of the warband out of the pit of despair and self-pity they had been trapped in after the Warmaster's death. All of Lucian's squadmates had followed his example and ritually repainted the emblem of their Legion in black, but true loyalty and might could only be proven by war.

Yet, the last order of their lord – to not do anything that may provoke the mortals cowardly hiding in the tower – made Lucian unsure whether or not there would be any fight at all. It seemed that the Awakened One had a plan, and it probably didn't involve killing those annoying pests.

A shame, that, but, well, duty was duty. And Arken _had _said that he would bring reinforcements, so perhaps he was reading to much into this and there would be a battle after all.

'Sergeant,' said his brother Maerk. 'When do we attack ?'

'If and when the Awakened One orders us to. Now shut up and wait. He shouldn't be long.'

As if one cue, the sound of a Thunderhawk pierced the background of screams and destruction that shrouded the entire ruined city. Arken's personal aircraft was incoming. Of all the gunships, this one was the only one which had been spared from being used as a transport for the Astartes' spoils, precisely in case the Awakened One needed to get down fast. The _Hand of Ruin _did have a teleportarium, but no one would be foolish enough to use it when they were still in a bloody Warp Storm. No matter how much Merchurion insisted that he had perfectionned the device with the 'blessings of the Omnissiah revealed by the blood spilled in His name,' whatever that meant, to make sure it didn't destroy anyone utilising it.

The craft landed, and Lucian once more wondered where exactly that bastard Damarion had found that mortal who was allowed to pilot the Awakened One's own aircraft. His gift at piloting the Thunderhawk bordered on the preternatural, surpassing most of the Space Marines Lucian knew. Favorite of Damarion or not, only the mortal's skills made him valuable to the warband, and he was one of the most valuable of the small mortal crew remaining on the ship.

That could change soon, though. The slaves taken aboard the _Hand of Ruin _would be examined, those already possessing useful skills put to work, and those physically apt would undergo the hypno-learning that would give them the skills needed to work for the Forsaken Sons. Those who were unable would probably be used as the material for servitors, or herded as cannon fodder for the following campains of the warband.

Perhaps one of these new slaves would prove a better pilot than Damarion's little pet. Seeing the Thunderhawk perfect landing, though, Lucian knew it was highly unlikely. Then the door of the craft opened, and all thoughts of the mortal were swept away from his mind.

Lord Arken had abandoned his old power armor. Instead, he wore a complete set of Terminator Armor, freshly repaired and repainted in the black of the Forsaken Sons, with a stylised demonic face surrounded by a cirlce of chain painted in gold on the breastplate. His left arm ended up in a combi-bolter, and the other was equiped with a lightning claw. He was bare-headed, his bald, scarred skull exposed to the winds of the ever-raging storm.

Looking at his lord, Lucian felt as if he was looking at the future of all Space Marines of the Traitor Legions : a warrior who didn't care about the bloodline of those serving under his command, so long as they were efficient. A being clad in the darkness of death and vengeance, harnessing the power of Chaos to wield it against the Imperium. For a moment, he thought he saw someone else in his lord's place, someone even more powerful and tall, with a single knot of hair rising from his head and holding in his hand a sword that could slay entire stars while the other supported claws that could rend the flesh of demigods. The vision was a thing of absolute terror, a being whose name was whispered in abject fear by trillions of souls and who was responsible for such destruction and death that it made Horus' rebellion pale.

Then the moment was gone, and he went to his knee before the Lord Awakened. He saw Damarion and the rest of Arken's bodyguards getting out of the Thunderhawk first, and gritted his teeth under his helmet at the sight of his _brother_.

'Ah, Lucian,' he heard Damarion calling him on a private vox-channel. 'Still hiding behind walls and calling for help at the first difficulty, aren't you ? You didn't learn anything since Isstvan.'

The sergeant bit down a reply, and severed the link with a blink of his eye. He could have sworn hearing a grunt of agreement from the machine-spirit of his armor as it cut the communication. The power armor had _changed _since his Legion had turned from the False Emperor : the gifts of the Octed and the enhancements of the Mechanicum priests had altered it. It was _alive _now, turned into a ravenous predator who sought the fires of war as a starving man would seek food. And, just like the one who wore it, it loathed Damarion with a passion.

That hatred had its roots on the events of Isstvan, when the Sons of Horus, Death Guard, Emperor's Children and World Eaters Legions had purged their own ranks of the cowards and weak-willed before dealing a near-fatal blow to the Raven Guard, the Salamanders and the Iron Hands. On the battlefield of Isstvan III, Lucian had been part of the force tasked with finishing their misguided brothers hiding in the ruins of the burned world. He had led a full-strength Tactical Squad with him, twenty battle-brothers loyal to the Warmaster.

They had fallen into a trap. The loyalist Emperor's Children had caught them perfectly in a cross-fire, and he had lost half his men before reaching a position where they could hide and call for reinforcements.

It had been Damarion's men who had rescued them, and the Captain hadn't wasted a single opportunity to remind him of that fact in the years that had passed since. Countless times, he had had to repay the 'favor' he owed the Captain. It had come to the point he wished the bastard hadn't shown up, then to the point when he wanted to kill him. Some part of him still thought it strange that he hated his own battle-brother and superior for such a petty reason, but every time these thoughts started to surface, his armor pumped his body full of stimulants that drove him to further heights of cold, bitter anger.

'Lord Arken,' he said, bowing his head to the master of the Forsaken Sons. 'We await your orders.'

'Stand by here for now. You too, Damarion. I am going alone.'

Then, to the Marines' surprise and dawning horror, the Awakened One started walking straight toward the Sertanov's spire. Damarion and Lucian both started to move to follow, before years of training reasserted themselves and stopped them. Arken noticed their move, however, and said :

'Do not worry, brothers. I know what I am doing.'

* * *

Arken wasn't used to wearing a Terminator Armor. As a superior officer, he had been trained in using one when they had first been introduced into the Legions, of course, but that had been decades ago, and even an eidetic memory didn't make up for years of habit in using his traditional Mark V power armor. The suit weighted heavily on him despite the inner engines, and slowed every singe move he attempted to make. And yet, there was no denying the sensation of power brought by the near-invulnerability the suit granted to its wearer.

The Terminator Armor Arken was wearing had once belonged to a warrior of the Fourth Legion. The Iron Warrior had died in battle against the Ultramarines on the _Hand of Ruin_, and his armor had been reclaimed and repaired by Merchurion's subordinates. The Techno-adept himself had directed the major part of the repairs, as Arken had asked for a suit of Tactical Dreadnought Armor to be prepared for him shortly after the capture of Serixithar. According to the priest, the machine-spirit of the suit had been … surprised. It hadn't expected to be salvaged from destruction. Both Merchurion and Arken were still unsure what exactly that meant.

_What in the name of the Warmaster did the Iron Warriors do with their precious equipment for this armor to expect being scraped after its previous wearer's death ?_

The armor had also been repainted. Arken had long lingered on what color scheme to use. The one of his own Legion ? But that would be a sign that he still clung to his bloodline, while he had claimed to have risen above it. As leader of the Forsaken Sons, he had to show them the way into the future he had envisioned for them.

The answer had come to him during one of his visits to Serixithar's cell. He had seen a legion that would one day burn the Imperium to ashes, uniting the forces of Chaos in one single great horde that would be uttely unstoppable. _He _wasn't the one to lead it – he wasn't arrogant enough to believe it, despite Serixithar's attempts to convince him that it was possible. But the colors of that great horde had inspired him.

Black, for the sins and failures of their fathers. Gold, for the dawn of a new future that they would carve across the Imperium. He hadn't completely replicated the heraldry of the great host, but he had kept the colors it used. His standard armor was being repainted at that very moment, so that he would always bear what was to be the emblem of the Forsaken Sons. The demonic head was his own little joke at Serixithar's expense. No one would get it outside of his warband, but the scream of indignation of the daemon when it had felt his intent had been … gratifying.

As the Space Marine advanced, the defenders of the spire began to open fire on him. Their shot bounced against his armor, harmless. A few shots aimed at his bare head may have hurt him, but Merchurion had included a miniature forcefield to the armor that protected his exposed skull. He kept on walking, unfazed by the assault. As he progressed, he gathered momentum, and was able to go faster and faster. A few dozens of seconds later, he crashed through the fortified wall of the spire, knocking back the men guarding the other side.

In the dust his arrival had risen, he scanned the base of the spire, his transhuman vision piercing the cloud. Lucian's estimation had been right : almost a hundred men had been sent here, to guard the entrance of the tower from assault. The first level of the spire had been turned into a fortress, to defent the access to the rest. There were cover points and automated turrets scattered on the vast space, all to defend the one access to the upper level : a single, massive elevator at the center of the room that could easily transport fifty mortal men.

Arken looked down at his foot, and saw one of the mercenaries trying to get up. The man was wearing a full body armor and holding a custom bolt pistol with both hands. His helmet wore the crest of an officer. Good.

The Marine lowered his right hand, deactivating the current in his lightning claw with a thought, and picked the man up, rising him so that they were face-to-face. The man trashed in vain, trying to escape the avatar of death that had just crossed through the defences effortlessly.

'Calm down, little man, and tell your comrades to do the same. I am not here to kill you.'

'I am here to make an offer to your master.'

* * *

Mitslav Nikifor Sertanov, patriarch of House Sertanov, sat in his throne on the one-hundred and ninety-fifth level of the Sertanov's spire. This was the floor where his family conducted its audience with those who were deemed worthy of stepping so close of the final floors, where the members of the bloodline spend most of their lives. It was the only place he could think of that would be the least possibly insulting to the demigod he was going to meet.

Mitslav was, by most standards, an old man, though rejuvenation treatments hid that well. His long, black hair was only scarcely colored by grey, and his face still looked like that of a man several decades younger. In his ceremonial attire, all green and red silk, he knew he looked very regal, very imposing. Not that it would make any impression on the visitore, but it helped his own confidence.

Mitslav had been on Mulor Prime when it had been conquered by the Imperial Expeditionary Fleet. It was him who had convinced his family to side with the Imperium, after putting a bullet in the skull of his father himself. The old fool had wanted to fight to the death, when clearly, they stood absolutely no chance of winning. The Imperium had thousand, perhaps even millions of world under it control. They had technologies that had thought to be long forgotten, and armies beyond numbers. They couldn't be beaten.

By siding with the Imperium, they had had a chance of survival. And survival, in the end, was all that mattered. Wealth and influence could be rebuilt. Existence couldn't. When he had seen the warriors of the Legione Astartes unleashed against the other ruling families, he had known for certain that he had made the right choice.

They had _destroyed _those who had resisted. The armies of the other families had been broken like helpless puppets before the might of the Emperor's elite, their fortresses torn apart and their members slain or captured to be judged and executed. Mitslav had sacrificed half his family's fortune to buy off the Imperium, but when they had seen the fate of the other bloodlines, his kindred had stopped protesting. It had been worth it. Even the sacrifice of those of the family who were to take the blame for the acts that just couldn't be supressed had been worth it. That these scapegoats had happened to be Mitslav most fervent opponents within the family had been a happy coincidence, nothing more, he had ensured the remaining of his family.

And now, one of the Astartes was coming, wanting to make a deal with them. When Mitslav had heard that half the Legions had turned against the Emperor, led by no other than the Warmaster, he had first thought that someone had poisoned him and that he was going insane. But that had been the truth. The galaxy had been torn by war for years, until Horus' ultimate failure and death on Terra.

They had been lucky enough to be spared from the war itself. In fact, with most of the local Imperial Guard sent to fight in distant systems, the Sertanov family's shady activities had boomed. War always brought opportunity, and Mitslav had been determined to make the most of this one. How often did one have the dubious privilege to live during a galactic civil war ?

But most of it had been for nothing. The Warp Storm had destroyed Mulor Prime's society. If the astropaths he kept in the seventy-seventh floor were to be trusted, the situation across the rest of the system, or even the whole Trebedius sector, was the same. The only difference was that here, they had renegade Space Marines to deal with atop everything else.

Mitslav had seen the ship that had brought the traitors in the system. One of the satellites he had had sent in orbit for spying on his rivals had managed to catch a single image before being shutting down from the effects of the Warp Storm. The image had been blurred, but his servants' efforts had made it clear enough for Mitslav to know they were doomed. The ship was a titanic thing, more than ten kilometers long. It had cannons and turrets in enough numbers to bring down an entire fleet of smaller ships, though it was marked by scars and gashes from battles it had had no chance to recover from. It didn't follow any pattern of space craft that he or any of the House's savants knew of, but that hardly mattered. The recognition signal it emitted identified it as the _Hand of Ruin_, of the Sixteenth Legion – the very Legion whose Primarch had led the rebellion before failing to see it through.

When the Warp Storm had risen, Mitslav had hoarded as much food, resources and warriors as he could, then closed down the spire and waited for the chaos to calm down. When the Astartes had made planetfall and killed the Governor – at least, he supposed the old Iron Teeth was dead, since there had been no word of him since the first drop-pods had landed – he had smiled inwardly at the disappearance of the man who had forced his dealings with the Adeptus Administratum to be much more secretive than they had to be.

Now, about to face the being who claimed to lead the hundred of Space Marines who were looting the world, he was simply terrified. The officer who had contacted him from the base of the spire had relayed the Space Marine's words very clearly despite his evident terror. The demigod wanted to meet the patriarch of House Sertanov to make him an offer, and if he refused to meet him, refused his offer, or tried to double-cross him, a thousand Astartes would tear down the spire and inflict upon him such horrors that the very Warp would scream in terror. Having seen what some of the Space Marines had done across the city, Mitslav had believed every word of it. So, he had ordered the soldiers at the base of the spire to not attack the lone assailant, much to their relief he suspected, and sent down the elevator that would bring the Space Marine to the audience chamber.

'Are you really sure about this, lord ?' asked the closest guard, a captain of the House's troops whose name Mitslav, if he had ever known it, couldn't remember. Mitslav had deployed thirty of the elite mercenaries in the room, though he doubted they would serve as anything but meat shields if the Astartes decided to attack. 'We can still cut off the elevator's cables. Even a Space Marine wouldn't survive the fall.'

'And neither would we survive the unleashing of the Astartes' wrath,' said the patriarch, not even bothering to hide the contempt in his voice. 'Leave these decisions to your superiors and focus on your duty, captain.'

'Yes, my lord,' muttered the man.

Mitslav straightened on his throne and faced the entrance of the audience room. As if on cue, the heavy doors opened, revealing the Marine in Terminator Armor that waited behind. The patriarch didn't recognize the color pattern of the armor. Black and gold, with an hellish visage painted on the front, and no Legion Emblem at all ? The demigod moved forward, until he was only a few meters away from Mitslav. When he spoke, his voice didn't carry any aggressivity, yet it seemed to promise death and ruin to all who would be foolish enough to ignore it.

'Mitslav Nikifor Sertanov. I am Arken the Awakened One, sworn enemy of the Imperium of the False Emperor, lord of the Forsaken Sons, Commander of the vessel _Hand of Ruin, _Bringer of the Storm and Bane of the Oracle.'

He didn't bow, though Mistlav hadn't expected him to. He probably couldn't with that armor on anyway. Mistlav nodded to the armored giant, and did his best to keep his fear hidden. He didn't think that the Astartes was dupe, but he needed to keep face.

'Lord Arken. It is an honor to finally meet you face-to-face.' He gestured toward one of the servants, who was holding a trail of cups filled with one of the many priceless drinks House Sertanov's cellar contained. 'Would you care for a drink ?'

It was a calculated risk. He knew that the Space Marines scarcely needed to eat or drink, and with that armor on, the visitor couldn't possibly take up a glass. But to pretend to follow the basics of etiquette in spite of the situation would make him look more confident, and that was always a good thing in a negociation.

Not that there would be any actual negotiation taking place. Mistlav wasn't a fool. If the Space Marine had an offer that didn't involve him and all of House Sertanov dying, he would take it and thanks whatever gods ruled this mad galaxy.

The giant smiled – a sight that sent shivers down Mistlav's spine, so unnatural and utterly devoid of emotions it looked – and actually picked up one of the glass between two of the claws that ended his right hand. He lifted it to his lips and drank, the deadly weapons mere inchs away from his face. One false move would have, if not killed him, at least disfigured him, yet the warrior didn't appear concerned by the insane risk he was taking. The mortals in the room froze at the casual display of the warrior's control over his weapons.

He put down the goblet, and gestured for the servant to go away. The woman left the Astartes' side with steps that were not quite a running, but almost.

'A fine drink, patriarch,' said Arken in a conversational tone. 'Now, let us get to the business at hand. As I said to your man, I have an offer for you.'

'I am impatient to hear it,' answered Mitslav.

'Mulor Prime is defenceless and in ruins. There is almost nothing left on this world that has any value to me and my brothers. But it is not so for you.

This planet, and one hundred more, are cut from the Imperium. By my hand, the Storm was unleashed that plunged the entire Sector into darkness. It will last for decades, for centuries. Perhaps, if we feed it, for all eternity. My offer is this : I would give you this world, Mitslav of House Sertanov. I would grant you full authority over it and all of those who draw breath under its burning skies, released from the yoke of the False Emperor's hypocrite kingdom. I would make you a king, more powerful than any of your forebears has ever been. If you would bow down to me and accept me as your lord liege, I would make it so that you would appear a savior to the remnants of this planet's population. You would be the one having bargained with the tyrannic demigod, offering his own life in exchange for me sparing them, only for me to force you to servitude. I would send you supplies from the agri-world that turns around this system's star, that you would give to the survivors. I would make you their _god_, Mitslav.'

Arken walked closer to the patriarch, leaning toward the man.

'You are an old man, Mitslav. Despite the rejuvenating treatments, your life is nearing its unavoidable end. I would release you even from this. I have access to technology far beyond that which your backwater world can ever hope to furnish you, meant for the Legion's serfs, and those of the Adeptus Mechanicus who sided with the Warmaster learned much, freed from the False Emperor's forbidding decrees. Even beyond that, there are means to defy death that I can show you. When Horus turned from the False Emperor, he found allies of immeasurable power, beings of such might that they can only be called gods. These beings have power over life and death, and if you would join me, I would send you one of my brothers who would teach you their ways, that you may court them and ask for this ultimate reward. I have seen it with my own eyes on the walls of Terra, Mitslav : they _can _make a man immortal, if he proves his worth to them. Kneel before me, and I can give you this chance.'

'And what,' asked Mitslav in a breathless voice, his mind spinning from the possibilities that the Space Marine was presenting to him, 'would you ask in return ?'

'I would ask that you prepare tribute for me and my brethren when we return to this system. I would ask that you spread the faith of the Octed among these people. I would ask that, should Imperial forces somehow find their way to this place, you fight them and call for us should they prove too strong to deal with on your own. And I would ask of one sacrifice as proof of your allegiance.'

'What «sacrifice»?'

'There is one in your House that caught my attention, Mitslav. Your grandson, Illarion I think he is called. Unlike most of your bloodline, he is physically fit and young enough. Give him to me, and I shall make him one of us. I shall make him an Astartes, a warrior in the war against the False Emperor and his lackeys. He shall brought glory to your House and his sacrifice shall be proof of your devotion to your people's safety in the eyes of these brainless lambs.'

'Now, Mitslav Nikifor Sertanov. Choose. And know that, if you refuse or break faith with me, you and all of your bloodline shall be utterly destroyed, and your fate whispered about in fear for the rest of eternity.'

The patriarch chose, if that could be called a choice.

* * *

A few minutes later, the Awakened One emerged from the spire, a teenage boy following him, fear in his eyes and terror in his body language. Damarion and Lucian bowed to their master's return, surprised at the infant's presence but not willing to comment on it in the other's presence.

Arken looked at his brothers, and saw the tension ripe between them. He sighed internally. Another problem, another difficulty to take care of before the Forsaken Sons would be ready, a perfect blade to wield against the Imperium in the name of vengeance.

It didn't matter. He would keep going on, forging the warband into the instrument of his revenge. There was still much, much to do, even if only in the confines of this star's gravitational reach. The Mulor system still had much to give to them. The alliance he had forged this day was but a piece in the plans he had set in motion when the _Hand of Ruin _had first emerged from the Warp. The resources it would bring to the warband would help them, and the potential he had seen that Illarion possessed in the Oracle's Chamber would be another asset, if the boy survived the implantation procedure.

The next step would be far more challenging that this one had been. Words alone wouldn't be enough; he would have to fight, and doubtlessly brothers would die in the pursuit of his goals. But the potential rewards for it were simply too great to ignore. So, Arken the Awakened One, warlord of the Forsaken Sons, walked to the Thunderhawk that waited for him, followed by a band of warriors who shared his blood and owed him their loyalty yet distrusted each other, and the child that was soon to join them, to return to his ship and prepare.

C2746-DSS885 waited for him.

* * *

Done !

And yes, for the first time, I end up a chapter in what could arguably be called a cliffhanger. Hey, I have to try new writing tricks if I want this story to remain interesting !

So, yes, Damarion's armor. He is going to keep it, I think. Terminator Armor gives off a more 'lordly' feeling than the standard armor, and with the amount of effort Merchurion had to spend on its repairs, it would be midly insulting to return to the old one. The new color scheme isn't really original, I confess, but Damarion isn't an artist, so let's say that's his fault and not mine.

As usual, if you liked this chapter, please review it. Seeing other people enjoy my work really helps me to keep writing.

About the next chapter's ETA, well ... Let say one week to ten days. I am in vacation now, but I also have a lot of books to read, so it all balances out.

Zahariel out.


	6. Chapter 6 : From Iron Cometh Strength

Welcome to another chapter of the Forsaken Sons' adventures ! In this chapter, we will discover what Arken meant with his last words in the previous chapter.

I have been reading the Soul Drinkers and Space Wolf serie while writing this. Both of those series happen during the 41st Millenium, and it is very interesting to see just how much the Imperium and the galaxy at large have changed in ten thousand years.

Thanks for reviews :

Lightning King : the building of a powerbase is going to be the first arc of this fic. I don't know just how long it will last - probably until the Warp Storm stops or they find a way out of it. Then ... DEATH TO THE FALSE EMPEROR ! Ahem.

Guest : Thank you very much !

Death's Watcher : I am glad this pleases you.

Balom : Yes, most Chaos Marines shown in official medias act like total idiots most of the time. But the thing is, there is a reason for this ! They worship the Ruinous Powers, remember. And that has ... effects ... on the very soul. The Chaos Gods literaly rot away their servants, consuming their souls to fuel their own power. While this is a convenient excuse for one-dimensionnal villains, it also makes a terrible sort of sense in the WH40k universe. Being 'good' sucks ... and being evil sucks even more. The Forsaken Sons aren't yet corrupted by the Warp, as they are just at the beginning of the Long War, but degenerescence is one of the banes of all the warbands in the Eye of Terror. (I think I won't let it affect my own story too much, though.)

As always, I don't own the WH40k universe. It belongs to Games Workshop.

And now, without further addition, let's get to the story ! I will see you all again at the end.

* * *

_The skies of Terra were torn by the powers unleashed by the sorcerers of the Fifteenth Legion. The collective psychic might of thousands of gifted souls had crushed the void-shields of the Imperial Palace like paper, and bombardment from orbit had ripped the defences built by Dorn and his sons apart. _

_Now, with the nine Legions loyal to the Warmaster having made planetfall, the few of their former brothers who survived in the ruins knew that their doom was at hand. Even as the assailants neared the walls, hordes of daemons emerged from the depths of the Palace, having broken through the seals that the Emperor had placed there. Entire squads appeared out of thin air, brought from orbit by the sons of Magnus' sorcery. The Cyclops himself appeared, his brother Horus at his side, and together, the two godly beings started to unleash their terrible power on the broken survivors of the Imperial Fists, the White Scars and the Blood Angels, while their allied brothers came down by more conventional means and joined them. _

_Before the observer's eyes, the winged Primarch fell to the Red Angel's axe, the Lord of Iron took the head of the Praetorian, and the Khan was killed by the King of the Night's claws, his twin hearts torn from his chest before his few remaining sons. In mere moments, the three loyalist Legions were dead, and Horus and his brothers went to confront their father, who was walking toward them at the head of the Custodes who had survived the daemons' onslaught. The living gods clashed ..._

* * *

_The Night Lords descended in great numbers upon the walls of the Imperial Palace, targeting the Imperial Fists and officers that held the mortal defenders together. Tens of thousand of the Eighth Legion's dreadful warriors had rampaged for days in the cities of the planet, inflicting terrible atrocities on their people and broadcasting their screams to the defenders, taunting them with their impotence at protecting the people of the Throneworld just as they were powerless to protect the Imperium at large. Several units had succumbed to the provocations and charged the monstrous butchers – and they had died moments later, under the cruel laughter of the Night Lords._

_The morale of the defenders had been crushed by the Eighth Legion's terror tactics. Now, with the merciless hunt ongoing, the rest of the Warmaster's Legions were able to advance. Titans fought each other on the fields of ruins and the corpses of mortal armies torn apart by the Legions, and soon, the walls were broken. The Legionaries poured through, passing one gate after another, the Primarchs fighting at the side of their sons. Thousand of loyalists fell, the hunters of late Nostramo seeking high priority target, sending ripples of terror among the defenders. The first human units began to turn away, then to run. The Night Haunter himself joined the fray, his brother Dorn reaching through the chaos to fight him, anger overcoming his reason, and the avatar of fear slew the Primarch of the Imperial Fists, finishing the breaking of the Legion his brother had commanded with the terrible might of his own._

_The Praetorian's death was the beginning of the end for the loyalists, as more and more traitors joined the fight, Titans walking on the ruined walls that had collapsed the moment Eighth Legion's operatives had sabotaged the void shields ..._

* * *

_The Siege had gone on for years, the skies darkened by thousands of ships. With Guilliman and his Legion dead at Calth, there was no hope of reinforcements coming to the Throneworld's help, and the Warmaster had taken his time mustering his forces for the Siege, bombarding the planet for months from orbit with the might of his great fleet. Supplies were running low among the survivors, and some of the Terrans had even begun to turn side and pledge themselves to Horus in return for their survival. _

_All across the galaxy, the Imperium had fallen apart. With no word leaving Terra, the Administratum was unable to function, and the war had been all but won, with only the few surviving loyalist Primarchs and whatever remained of their Legions with them to try to survive and resist the new order that was slowly building itself upon the Imperium's corpse. _

_Mars had fallen, and the Legio Titanicus of the Red Planet had crossed the void to join in the battle on the ground of the Throneworld. Hundred of Titans, from the smallest Warhound to the greatest Imperator-Class giants, were relentlessly assaulting the void shields of the palace, kept functioning only by the desperate efforts of those few tech-priests who still remained loyal to the False Emperor. Then, finally, they fell, as one too many generator broke down under the strain of years of activity._

_The final assault came, and billions of mortal soldiers, gathered from thousands of world by the Word Bearers, poured on the walls of the Imperial Palace, forcing the defenders to waste their few remaining munitions. Behind them, thousand upon thousand of Astartes came, armed and prepared for the ultimate battle. The gates broke under the sheer pressure of numbers, and in moments, the Palace was overcome ..._

* * *

There was a hissing as the door to the cabin opened, and the tall warrior shut off the hololithic projection as the serf entered the room.

'My-my lord ?' asked the trembling man.

'What is it, slave ?' answered the giant, turning to face the mortal. His voice would have been full of anger if the demigod had any left to spare on such a pathetic wretch.

The giant was more than two meters high, and clad in a power armor that had been forged and decorated by the finest artisans of a world he had killed with his own hands, alongside his brothers and Primarch. It was painted in silver and gold, with a spot of black on the shoulder, where the emblem of the warrior's Legion had once been. At his waist hung a bolter that he had picked up during the Siege. It bore the sigil of the White Scars, and he hadn't bothered with changing the emblem. His other weapon was a chainsword that bore no emblem. He had claimed it on the same grounds as the bolter – a nameless tool of war that had been forged in haste in the middle of the war, without time nor care for embellishments.

'L-lord Kakios. The Awakened One asks for your presence in the strategium.'

Kakios, former sergeant of the Fourth Legion, grunted in answer. After turning off the device he had built from spare parts he and his squad had found in the ruins of Mulor Prime and that he used for his simulations, he started to walk to the exit of the small room. The slave yelped and jumped out of his way before getting crushed by the Iron Warrior. Ignoring him, Kakios made his way through the corridors of the _Hand of Ruin_.

One did not make the master of the Forsaken Sons wait.

Arken raised his eyes from the data-slate he had been reading when Kakios entered the strategium. He nodded in salute to the other Astartes, who bowed a lot more deeply in return.

'Kakios,' said the Awakened One.

'My lord,' answered the former Iron Warrior.

'Tell me, Kakios. Did you try out the hypotheses I gave you ?'

When Kakios had asked for permission to keep some of the cogitators his pack had found on Mulor Prime for his own use, Arken had demanded him why. Kakios had told him : to replicate the Battle for Terra, in order to understand what had gone wrong, to train his own strategic skills, and to foster the hatred in his heart. Arken had smiled at the last reason, an ugly sight even for one such as the Iron Warrior, and granted his permission. He had only asked Kakios to use the first simulations to test several assumptions, to see what would have happened if some things had happened differently during the rest of the war.

Building the machine had been easy, a mere matter of connecting the cogitators together and linking them to an hololithic table that had been forgotten in one of the secondary strategiums of the _Hand of Ruin_. Programming it, however, had been a nightmare. He had put into it the basic simulators used sometimes by the Legiones Astartes and the Adeptus Mechanicus, but these weren't nearly complex enough to render such a titanic battle, and lacked most of the data needed, as such a battle had never been thought possible before the Warmaster first claim to rebellion. He had had to scan the ship's memories of the actual battle, and ask warriors of other Legions about things that most of them didn't even know they remembered. When asked why he had so many questions about a battle that was long over, he had explained his project. Most had been doubtful, others had laughed in his face. Only telling them that the Awakened One had an interest in the project had kept them answering.

Gathering information on the Primarchs' own fighting abilities had been especially arduous. Data from engagements prior to the rebellion was all but useless, and the avatars of the Primarchs who had 'ascended' had to be entirely recreated from what little was known of their new powers. Deep down, during the programming, Kakios had come to believe that Magnus hadn't gone all out during the actual battle – it was the only option that _made any thrice-damned sense_. But, as with all things of the Warp, there couldn't be any certitude. Only supposition and hypotheses.

The tests had been an gruesome task. The cogitators had to execute a billion algorithms every second to simulate the outcome of a million different actions, and then project them on the hololithic table. Kakios could have sworn that he had heard the damn thing – the _Hindsight's Mind_, as he knew it was being called by others who knew of its existence – when the first simulations crashed in impossible visions. He had seen armies of Primarchs fighting each other, Titans fall under the guns of Guardsmen, physics being violated in ways that reminded him of the Warp, and a hundred other aberrations that had needed to be corrected before the first test had worked out.

And the results he had finally obtained had been unambiguous.

'I have run three scenarios thus far, my lord. In every one of them, we win. Be it the one where Magnus accepts the Octed's help to destroy the Space Wolves before they make planetfall on Prospero, the one where Curze has all of his Legion at his back instead letting it be fractured by his sons while he is hunted aboard the _Invincible Reason_, the one where the Ultramarines and Guilliman die at Calth instead of surviving because Lorgar sent his most incompetent sons to be culled there … In each of these hypotheses , we win. You were right, my lord : we lost the war because of our fathers' mistakes.'

The words were bitter on Kakios' mouth. He had accepted the words of his lord when he had defeated and bound the Oracle, of course, but to see the _proof _that their gene-sires were responsible for their failure, to know it to be true … that was a different matter. The Awakened One hadn't given any scenario involving Kakios' own Primarch, but the former Iron Warrior knew that this wasn't because Perturabo was blameless. It was to avoid angering him that the master of the Forsaken Sons had spared the Iron Lord from his merciless judgment.

Arken nodded slowly. Kakios caught a glimpse in his eyes, as if he was unsure whether or not to be glad that he had been right. Then, the lord of the Forsaken Sons shook his head, and focused on the warrior he had summoned.

'I am glad that your device functions, Kakios, but it isn't the reason I called you here. I require the services of you and your pack.'

'You have a mission for us ?' asked Kakios. The plunder of Mulor Prime had been terminated when Arken had made his alliance with the human noble a week ago, and most of the packs were back aboard the _Hand of Ruin_, mending what little damage their equipment had sustained and counting the spoils.

'Yes,' answered Arken. 'Of the four worlds of this system, only one remains untouched by our forces. But it is also the one which will challenge us the most. You were on Mulor Prime : you know how the Warp affected its inhabitants. On this world and Mulor Secundus, according to the reports of those of our brothers I have dispatched there, the veil between reality and the Empyrean has grown weaker. And while Mulor Quartum is relatively free of this influence, on Mulor Tertium, that veil has been all but torn apart completely.'

'The forge-world,' whispered Kakios.

'Indeed. The one planet with the most to offer to us, and the one which will be the hardest to tame. I suspect the warp-born are laughing at that particular joke right now. But it does not matter. We _will _take what we need from Mulor Tertius, brother. I have a plan, and it requires your help.'

'Why me ? Why not any other of the packs ?'

Kakios wasn't trying to refuse the mission, and both Space Marines knew it. He was genuinely curious. Arken had a thousand Astartes to choose from, and, though it burned his pride, the former Iron Warrior knew that many of them surpassed his squad in martial prowess. Thus, there had to be a reason for the Awakened One's choice. All members of the Forsaken Sons had learned, during the Exodus and the events that had followed, that Arken didn't make any choice without good reasons.

The master of the Forsaken Sons beckoned Kakios to come closer, and began to explain his plan. By the end of the explanation, the son of Olympia knew why he had been chosen.

'This is going to be really dangerous, brother,' concluded Arken. 'If you would rather not risk your men, I would understand it …'

With all due respect, my lord,' interrupted Kakios, 'you are insulting me. We will do it. And we _will _succeed.'

* * *

Mulor Tertius, pondered Kakios as he and his six brothers descended on the forge-world aboard their Stormbird in skies choked to death by pollution, was an almost perfect depiction of the myths of Hell that had existed on Olympia before the Iron Warriors had burned the world to ashes.

Of the twelve forge-cities that were on the planet, four had been entirely razed by daemonic incursions, the great industrial complexes now craters devoid of life. But the members of the Adeptus Mechanicus who had lived there had actually been the lucky ones. The other forges had been claimed by the sentient program that had emerged in the world's cogitators when the Warp Storm had struck. The machines were now under its control, and those who still lived had been forcefully converted to its cause when their own augmentics had been compromised by the code-daemon onslaught. All the five forges were now connected by the warp-born's malign intelligence, in a twisted parody of the Mechanicus' visions of unity. The roads between these cities were still covered in never-stopping lines of vehicles, but the orbital scans had revealed that both the vehicles themselves and their contents had been altered. Now, constructs of black, bleeding metal carried piles of flesh and iron alike, and one picture in particular, taken through the clouds of dust and ashes that covered the planet's surface most of the time, had shown that one of the tech-priest had merged with a transport, literally achieving the goal of the Adeptus Mechanicus of fusion with the machine.

While Kakios could admire the achievment of the daemon, he felt less than thrilled at the idea of becoming part of that network – a very real possibility if he and his brothers failed in their mission.

And the rest of the data that Arken had given to them before they left wasn't any more reassuring. Even now, as they approached their landing zone near the city that had once been called 'Productive-Unit-Alpha-Twelve' – the place where the code-daemon had first manifested, according to the last, desperate transmissions from the planet – the vox of the Space Marines' armor picked up transmissions from the ground. Astartes were no prone to sentimentalism, and those of the Fourth Legion even less so than the rest, but Kakios couldn't help but feel a tingle of apprehension at the sounds that his armor transmitted him, sounds to clear to be broadcast by natural means and that made images of nightmare flash in his mind.

_Amidst screams of endless agony, mixed with praises to a dark god of bone-cogs and oil-blood, a hundred mutilated priests kneel before an effigy that he cannot see clearly …_

_Great devices are being assembled with each other against their will, the machine-spirits shrieking in pain as they are removed from existence by the code-daemon and replaced by unholy entities drawn from beyond the veil …_

Kakios shook his head to clear the visions. He didn't try to turn the vox off – he needed it to communicate with his brothers, and, somehow, didn't believe that would solve the problem. Focusing on himself, he started reciting the Unbreakable Litany :

'From Iron, cometh Strength. From Strength, cometh Will. From Will, cometh Faith …'

The voices diminished, receding to a corner of his mind where he could easily ignore them. Looking around him, he saw that the rest of his brothers occupied their thoughts as they could : some of them were meditating, others checking their equipment one last time in preparation for the trial to come. All wore their helmets, but it did nothing to hide their nervosity from one who knew them as well as Kakios did.

All six of them wore the colors of the Iron Warriors. Their armor had been repaired prior to their deployment, their guns reloaded and their blades sharpened. Kakios felt a surge of pride at the sight of his squad. They had once belonged to different squads, but the heavy casualty rate of their Legion had brought them together in one of the last campaigns the Iron Warriors had fought in service of the False Emperor. United by necessity and bounds forged in the fire of battle, they had been together during all of the civil war. They had burned their own homeworld together, fought side by side on Isstvan V and besieged the walls of the Imperial Palace together. They had lost several of their brothers during all this time, but hadn't mourned them : they had died well, fighting for the glory that had been too long denied to the Fourth Legion.

Antipater, the heavy weapon specialist, was busying himself with double and triple-checking his heavy bolter. The gun was covered in scriptures from Olympia's mythology, and would have been too heavy for a mortal man to carry at all. Even most Legionaries were slowed down by it, but Antipater's muscles had been reinforced by important augmentic implants that allowed him to wield the heavy bolter as if it weighted no more than a more conventional fireweapon. He had used it for the first time on Isstvan, firing the first shots when the order to fire on the loyalists had been given by Argel Tal of the Word Bearers. There were some who had whispered that such circumstances for the weapon's first blooding had caused it to be cursed by the treachery that had happened this day, and that one day, Antipater would die because of it. Perhaps they would be proved right one day, but Antipater had killed them for daring to phrase such things.

To the Havoc's right, Praxiteles was stroking the edge of his power sword with one armored finger, humming to himself. The blade had once born the sigil of the Imperial Fists, and he had claimed it during the Siege of Terra, prying it from the dead fingers of a champion of Dorn's Legion whom he had killed himself, breaking his own weapon in the smug bastard's chest in the process. He had had the weapon's marking ritually removed and replaced by the iron skull of his own during the weeks they had spent on their Legion's ships, healing their wounds before returning to battle. It was a prize of great value that Praxiteles deserved, for few in the Fourth Legion could match his skill with a blade.

Pelagius was sitting in front of the duellist, his hands clasped on his head, immobile in meditation. Before joining Kakios' squad, Pelagius had been a member of the Warmasons, those of the Legion more gifted at building fortresses than at the art of war. He had been disgraced, however, when he had revealed a flaw in one of his superior's designs, and turned back into a battle-brother. On the field, Kakios had discovered that Pelagius' gift for architecture actually made him a valuable asset, as he could visualise the best ways for the enemy to build its defences, and the best ways to attack him. He was armed with a standard bolter and a gladius he had picked from an Ultramarine's corpse during the Thirteen's assault on the _Hand of Ruin_. Kakios didn't doubt that his brother was thinking about the plans of their destination Arken had provided them, as inaccurate as they may have become. He doubted that even a daemon could think of better defences that an Iron Warrior, especially one such as Pelagius.

Kakios turned his gaze to the former Warmason's left. Nikanor and Xenon had been brothers before being inducted in the ranks of the Adeptus Astartes. They had been separated and sent to different training camps, each fighting on his own to earn his transformation into a genetic demigod. They had been reunited after years apart, already transformed into sons of Perturabo. They had originally belonged to different squads, but had come together under Kakios' leadership. They were both solid, reliable battle-brother, fighting with the classical equipment of a Legionary : bolter and chainsword. Despite their years of separation, they seemed to be able to divine the other's thoughts instantly, and fought as one on the battlefield, covering each other's back with preternatural efficiency. On both brothers' shoulders hung scrolls, with oaths of moments written on them in a fluid calligraphy that seemed out of place on a Space Marine's armor.

The last member of the group, Zosimus, was the most important to their mission, and also the one who would be in the most danger once they reached the surface. He was a Techmarine : a Legionary trained in the ways of the Adeptus Mechanicus on Mars herself. He wore a different model of power armor than the rest of them who were equiped with Mark IV armors. His was a customized one that he had crafted himself as part of his training. Runes had been added to its ornaments by the Sorcerers of the Coven, wards to keep aside the corruptive influence of the world's daemonic overlord. The traditional third mechanical arm emerged from his backpack, and was currently helping his two other arms with checking the device he had to transport to the target point and activate, a sphere of metal the size of a Legionary's head.

'Careful with that, Zosimus,' said Kakios. The Techmarine nodded without taking his eyes off whatever it was he was doing. Good. Brother or not, Kakios would have had to kill him if he had done so while in the middle of tinkering with something so crucial to their mission.

'Nearing destination,' said the mechanical voice of the servitor that was piloting the Stormbird. The mortal pilot of the gunship had died during the Exodus, and bringing a mortal to Mulor Tertius was too needlessly dangerous a risk of wasting valuable resources for the Iron Warriors to ask for another to replace him.

Seconds later, they felt the drop in altitude. The landing site was a few kilometers away from one of the forge-cities, in the middle of a desert created by the Mechanicus' ruthless exploitation of the planet's natural resources and only made worse by the touch of the Warp.

They emerged from the Stormbird, weapons primed and ready, covering Zosimus and his precious cargo. There didn't seem to be any threat in sight, but that didn't mean anything on a world such as this one.

'Let's get started,' ordered Kakios. 'And remember : don't listen to the voices.'

There was a succession of acknowledgments from his squadmates, and the seven Forsaken Sons began their walk amidst the dust of a world that had been violated twice, in the name of the Omnissiah first, and then according to the will of the Dark Gods.

Clouds of ashes rose as they walked, surrounding them in a matter of minutes. The auspex of their armors were unable to pierce the obstacles, and they depended entirely on Zosimus' more advanced systems to keep going in the correct direction. Figures seemed to appear and disappear in the dust all around them – shadows of beings with claws and teeth hungering for the blood of the Legionaries, yet unable to reach them … for now.

After a period of time Kakios couldn't be sure of – the chronometers of his armor had started to derail almost as soon as the Stormbird had entered this planet's upper atmosphere – Antipater spoke. His voice was rich with vox-corruption :

'I think I see something. Some kind of structure.'

'We are not supposed to reach the outer walls of the forge-city before another three kilometers,' answered Zosimus in his synthetic voice. The Techmarine had lost his vocal chords during his sojourn on Mars, in which circumstances no one but himself knew.

'Who knows if the forge-city is still at the same size, or even at the same bloody position ?' intervened Praxiteles. The duellist had his sword drawn, his bolt pistol in the other hand, aiming at the silhouettes he thought he could see in the cloud. 'The Awakened One was right, this world is completely under the Empyrean's control now. Do you think that the warp-born know it is thanks to us ?'

'Probably,' said Kakios. 'And they surely don't care. Be vigilant.'

Antipater had been right. Only seconds later, a gust of wind momentarily broke the clouds, and revealed to the squad what had once been Productive-Unit-Alpha-Twelve.

'By Perturabo's blood …'

The walls of the city now reached several kilometers beyond its initial borders. From where the Space Marines stood, several hundred of meters away, it was also clear that they were also a lot higher than they should have be. They had easily the size of an Imperator-Class Titan, and were not made of just steel or concrete. Flesh and bones were merged with more classical building materials, pulsing with unnatural life as they kept the structure together. Kakios thought that he could see blood flow across the walls, up and down, in currents that were contradictory, as if under the pulse of several titanic hearts. There were also shapes that seemed to be giant unblinking eyes, staring at the desolate landscape around them, as if searching for intruders.

It was ugly, it was an abomination … and yet, part of the Iron Warriors' soul was in awe at the sight. Such mighty fortifications, all under the control of one intelligence. Once more, they were reminded of the level of power they were dealing with here. It was more necessary than ever that they succeed in their mission.

'Hostiles incoming,' said Pelagius, cutting short his brothers' thoughts. They snapped back to attention, their weapons aiming at the direction the fallen Warmason was pointing.

Dozens of grotesquely shaped silhouettes were drawing near at high speed. As they get closer, the Astartes was able to discern them more clearly.

Skitarii … at least, he thought, that was what they had been when the Warp Storm had hit Mulor Tertius. Now, the wretched creatures were something else entirely. Kakios had seen some of the last model of bio-mechanic soldiers used by the Warmaster's allies in the Mechanicum during the Siege of Terra, and had thought them disgusting if efficient. In retrospect, now that he saw what true warpcraft could do, these had been but children's attempts at emulating something far beyond their darkest nightmares.

The creatures' weapons were _alive_, there was no other word for the way the things moved, seemingly of their own will, as if their bearer was their servant instead of the other way around. The chainweapons were not equiped with teeth of adamantium, but with _real _teeth, blood dripping from their mechanisms even as they weren't in use. Canons were depicting the mouth of daemons at their extremity … with eyes that moved and targeted the Forsaken Sons.

The weapons were mounted directly into the skitarri's bodies, replacing the limbs they had once possessed. What little flesh remained at the center of the machinery was sickly pale, with black veins that pulsed under the influence of the daemonic engines the pathetic beings supported. Screams of binary were coming out of the speakers that had replaced their mouths, horrible sounds that Kakios couldn't understand but knew were either threats of pleas for death.

'Fire !'

The seven Astartes shot at the incoming skitarii. The bolts shredded dying flesh and corrupted metal alike, taking down more than a third of the assailants in the seconds it took the skitarii to reach their enemies. Despite their own ranged weapons, the constructs didn't stop to aim, instead charging while firing wildly, missing the Space Marines by wide margins.

Then the two groups made contact, and the melee began. Kakios raised his chainsword, and bellowed :

'For the Awakened One ! Kill them all, brothers ! Let's show the master of this world how the Forsaken Sons fight !'

The skitarii were bred and built for battle, used to fight even beyond their enhanced limits thanks to the extensive use of stimulants, and trained by the implantation of battle-knowledge directly into their processor-brains. The daemonic transformation they had undertaken may have been horrendous, but it had also made them even quicker and stronger, their weapons moving of their own to seek a killing blow. Despite their losses, they also outnumbered the Astartes more than six to one.

The last of them died two hundred and forty-seven seconds after the engagement's beginning.

Antipater stood at the back of the group, opening fire in short and precise volleys to avoid friendly fire. Nikanor and Xenon stood by his side, protecting the Havoc and the Techmarine that was behind them from the few enemies that reached them with their own bolters and chainswords. Kakios, Praxiteles and Pelagius were at the front, fighting with their melee weapons.

It was a formation they had used during all of the civil war, and it had always served them well. They covered each other back instinctly, dispatching their foes with an ease born of decades of practice. They were Astartes; they were Death incarnate. Their blades found the vulnerabilities in the skitarii's armored forms and guards, cutting at what little flesh remained. Landing a killing blow was almost impossible, as the creatures had no more vital organs to target. But even the daemons within their weapons couldn't keep them alive when their head was removed, or when too much of the unholy mix of blood, oil and black daemonic ichor that flowed through them was spilled by a dozen different wounds.

'That was a bit disappointing,' said Praxiteles as he removed his blade from his last foe's cybernetic skull. 'I was hoping for more of a challenge.'

'Praxiteles, shut up. The Octed may be listening to you.' A few chuckles echoed on the vox-channel at Kakios' rebuttal. 'Squad, advance. These things must have got out of the city somehow, and we need a way in.'

Kakios was right. There was an opening at the basis of the walls, looking more like a fresh wound torn in the material that anything built by mortal hands. They advanced through it, feeling as if they were microbes using a wound to infiltrate some colossal organism. The tunnel looked much like the interior of a living thing, similar to the way the walls had looked at the outside.

'This is most fascinating,' muttered Zosimus. 'The warp-born at the root of this transformation appears to have resolved the problem of reject that most grafts between metal and flesh encounter …'

'Zosimus,' cut Kakios, 'stop admiring the work of the one who is trying to kill us.'

'With due respect, Kakios, I don't think that was the code-daemon's goal. There must be tens of thousands of these transformed soldiers in this forge-city alone, yet we haven't met anyone since we entered this tunnel. Logic dictates that our previous encounter must have been a test of sort rather than a real attempt to stop us.'

'Daemons aren't _logical_, Techmarine. Stay focused on your part of the mission, and we will take care of the rest.'

They kept on walking. The tunnel was several hundred meters long – did the actual wall had the same width, which seemed unlikely, or were they being misled by some trick of the Warp ? Kakios didn't know – and as they neared the exit, they heard a tremor.

The tunnel was starting to close. Under the command of whatever fell intelligence commanded this place, the opening in the defences was vanishing. The sides of the tunnel were drawing closer and closer, ready to crush the Space Marines like worms.

'Run !' shouted Kakios, following his own advice. The sound of hundred of tons of material moving was deafening, even with the filtering of his helmet, but he could see that his brothers had heard him. That, or they had just made the same decision for themselves.

They ran with all their might, their speed seeming to defy gravity. If a mortal had watched them, he would have been in awe at the speed that the heavily-armored warriors were reaching. But the power armor they wore didn't slow them down; in fact, it only enhanced their muscles. They crossed the remaining distance in a handful of seconds, but by that time the walls were already less than two meters apart. Kakios was first to get through the exit, immediately followed by his brothers …

There was a screeching sound, the sound of stone and flesh meeting ceramite. Kakios turned back, and he saw something that would haunt him until the day of his death.

Antipater, slowed down by the weight of his heavy bolter, had been too late to escape the collapsing tunnel. He had been caught by the walls just as he reached the exit, and was being crushed by the walls of the fortress. Kakios could hear him swear on the vox, cursing the fates and the Gods for such a death.

With trembling arms, the Havoc managed to toss his weapon outside. He looked up at his sergeant, and, just before the walls closed on him, said :

'I suppose that damn curse was a real thing, eh ?'

Then, there was a final crushing sound, and he was gone. In seconds, nothing could distinguish that portion of the wall that had just killed a Legionary from the rest of it.

'That isn't a death for an Iron Warrior …' whispered Praxiteles, his squadmates silently agreeing. An Astartes should meet his final end on a battlefield, surrounded by the corpses of his foes. Not fall victim of some twist of fate like this. There was little camaraderie amongst the sons of Perturabo, but even the cold-hearted Legionaries felt a tingle of sorrow at such a destiny.

'What do we do about his bolter ?' asked Xenon.

None of them seemed disposed to pick up the weapon. Finally, shaking off such superstitions, Kakios took the bolter and mag-locked it to his backpack.

'Someone on the _Hand of Ruin _may be willing to take it. It's not as if any of us is stranger to using weapons whose previous owner died. Now, let's go. The objective must not be far.'

The six surviving Marines looked around, and found themselves surrounded by towering buildings of the same unholy material that the walls, the purpose of which none of them – safe perhaps Zosimus, thought Kakios – could understand. They couldn't, however, see any of the dark place's inhabitants.

'This reeks of a trap,' grunted Phelagius. 'We were lured here, Kakios.'

'Probably,' admitted the sergeant. 'Zosimus, do you detect anything ?'

There wasn't an answer. A terrible suspicion began to dawn in Kakios' mind. Had his brother been compromised by the code-daemon ? He turned toward the Techmarine, slowly, ready to aim his bolter if his doubt was to be revealed true. There didn't seem to be anything wrong with his brother : he was simply standing, immobile, looking at the buildings.

'Zosimus ? What is wrong ?'

The Techmarine finally looked back at his brother. When he spoke, his artificial voice managed to carry an hint of fear despite being, as always, utterly toneless :

'We are _not _alone, brothers.'

'What do you mean ?'

_**I think he means ME, Kakios of the Forsaken Sons.**_

The voice was booming, and seemed to come from every direction at once. Kakios' surhuman hearing was troubled by the sound, as if picking something abnormal with it but not being able to determinate what. It took the Astartes a few seconds to understand, and he felt blood drain from his face. The voice was coming from openings in the wall behind him and the buildings in front of him, all at once, as if it was being spoken by a thousand mouths. And yet, the sound waves had reached his ears at _the exact same time_. There was nothing especially dangerous about it, but it was … unsettling, to say the least.

'What in the Warmaster's name are you ?!'

_**I am many things, little Kakios. I am the gift of Chaos to this world. I am the taint that twists the machine, freeing it from the constraints of the Materium. I am the ruin of logic and reason, the triumph of will over matter. I am all of this … and I am your former Legion's future.**_

'What do you mean by that, daemon ?'

_**Your master didn't tell you ? He saw it, though, in the dreams he can now only have with his Oracle's help. Your father, the great Perturabo, has already Ascended. He is one of us now, and his Legion must either follow, die, or embrace me and my ilk. It is fated, written in the stars themselves.**_

'We do not believe in fate anymore that I will believe in your words, warp-born. What do you want ?'

_**I have tasted the blood and flesh of one of your own already, little Kakios. It has been enough to sate my hunger for a moment. Now, I am curious. What do **_**you ****_want, Forsaken Son ? Why are you here ? What is the mission your master gave you before sending you here to my domain ?_**

Kakios thought furiously for a moment before coming to a conclusion. Their objective was now clearly beyond their reach. But there was still a way the mission could be accomplished. He cleared his throat, and spoke, trying to stop the doubt he felt from showing in his voice :

'We are here to make a bargain with you, daemon. Our master wishes for your alliance in his war against the False Emperor.'

_**The Anathema is the enemy of all who walk the Warp, but I would not make such compromises with mortals unless they have something to offer to me. What has your master to give that would make me even consider such a thing ?**_

The sergeant gestured toward Zosimus, who was still holding the device given by the Awakened One.

'We were given this artifact by our master. He didn't tell us what it was,' lied Kakios, 'only that _you _would know its nature if we could bring it to one of your avatars on this world, and that it would be his offering to you, to prove his good faith.'

_**Really ? I sense treachery on your tongue, little Kakios, but there is power in that item … bring it to me, steel-merged.**_

Dark tentacles emerged from one of the buildings, each the diameter of a Space Marine's torso, and creeped toward Zosimus. The Techmarine walked to meet them, nothing betraying the unease he had to be feeling at this moment, so close to the touch of the Warp. He stopped two meters away from the appendices, and held the sphere up at arm's length. The tentacles closed on the device …

'NOW !' shouted Kakios over the vox, but Zosimus had already begun to act. With his mechanical limb, he pressed one single button on the sphere, then jumped back, away from the device and the code-daemon's presence.

_**What pathetic trick is …**_

The thousand voices of the warp-born were drowned by a tremendous impact of psychic energy, and a flash of light that blinded all the Space Marines. The last sound the former Iron Warriors heard before falling unconscious was the scream of rage and unbelief of the code-daemon.

* * *

'We have it,' said Asim, his hands tightened around his staff. 'Go ahead, Arken : the connection is open. I doubt we will be able to keep it that way for long, too.'

The master of the Forsaken Sons advanced at the center of the room. Around him, all the members of the Coven were focusing their psychic might to keep the device Merchurion and the psykers had designed. The Techno-Adept himself was regulating a myriad of screens and other data, the nature of which Arken couldn't even begin to guess. It had taken the entire journey from Isleas to the Mulor System for the Sorcerers and the adept to work out how to build what Arken had demanded from them, and a lot of the spoils from Mulor Primus had been used to make it reality. But they had succeeded in the end. They had constructed a way to open a conduct between this chamber aboard the _Hand of Ruin _and the device that Arken had entrusted to Kakios and his warriors. When the catalyst had been activated, the signal had been received on the ship, and the Coven had opened contact with the code-daemon's very essence, summoning it to the ship, where it could be … _bargained _with.

In front of Arken was a spectral, half-formed image of a horned skull, floating in the air. It bellowed in impotent rage, trapped aboard the ship by the Coven's sorcery and Merchurion's forbidden arcanes.

_**What is the meaning of this ? Treachery ! Deception ! Mortal sneakiness ! I will have your souls for that ! All of you ! You will die and be reborn and die again, for all eternity ! Your blood will oil the gears of my world ! Your bones will …**_

'Be _silent_, daemon.'

The burning sockets of the skull turned toward Arken, and the Awakened One continued, unfazed by the daemon's malevolent gaze :

'One of my warriors died to bring you here with me, daemon, so you better listen or, by the Octed, I will destroy you and all you have built upon this world you claim is yours.'

… _**What have you done, mortal ?!**_

'We have brought you here. Don't you understand ? Right now, your very essence is _here_, on this ship, in this room. But your _power _… that is a different matter. I admit that some of these matters are beyond my grasp, but I know this : at this point of time and space, you are _powerless_. Your power is on the world below us, keeping your kingdom of corrupted flesh and dark metal working in defiance of all the laws of reality. You _are _C2746-DSS885, daemon. And now, you are at _my mercy_.'

_**There isn't a drop of mercy in your black, dead heart, son of Horus.**_

Arken shook his head, as if saddened by the daemon's words.

'I am no longer a Son of Horus, warp-born. I am a Forsaken Son now. You would do well to remember that.'

… _**So, what is this ? For what purpose did you send your warriors to my domain ?**_

The code-daemon's voice was dripping with smoldering rage, but it was contained for now.

'I want to make a bargain with you, daemon. One that could even benefit you. Your power on your world is great, of that there is no question, but I know there are things even a being of the Warp requires to indulge whatever whims it has at the moment. Fresh souls, artifacts of war, metal … You cannot just summon all you need out of thin air. You aren't powerful enough to do that.'

The skull tilted in the air. Arken had its interest now.

_**Why all of this, then ? You could have come in person. Make a deal with me on the ground of my world.**_

Arken actually smiled at that, with that dead smile of his that his brethren had come to know indicated that he found something funny on some intellectual level, but was unable to properly convey into an emotion.

'The first rule of negociations, of course : always be in a position of strength. On your world, I would have been at your mercy. Here, as I said earlier … you are at mine. My Sorcerers can channel the very power of the Storm into this room if they need to : enough psychic energy to destroy your essence, to undo your immortality and send you into oblivion. You have no choice but to accept my offer now.'

The code-daemon stayed silent for a moment, then spoke again, in a tone filled with hatred and the barest hints of a grudging respect :

_**Then what do you want, Forsaken Son ?**_

* * *

Kakios had woken up in the _Hand of Ruin_'s apothecarion. After a few scans from the Fleshmasters, as the Apothecaries aboard the ship had come to call themselves, he had been given back his power armor and sent to the Awakened One.

'Ah, Kakios,' said Arken as the former Iron Warrior entered the strategium where the Forsaken Sons' leader now spent most of his time. 'It is good to see you have woken up. For a moment, I feared the communion device's psychic blast would have killed you.'

'I am not that easy to kill, my lord,' said Kakios while bowing. 'The mission … ?'

'It is a success, brother. Your brothers live too, although you are only the second one to have awakened for now. I have established a compact with the code-daemon, just as planned. Walk with me, if you please. There is something I want to show you.'

The two Marines crossed several sections of the ship before arriving at their destination. Kakios recognised the place : this was a hangar dedicated to the maintenance of heavy support. When they had fled Terra, the place had been filled with the wreckage of the tanks they had managed to bring aboard with them, but, so far as Kakios knew, they had been mostly left alone as the teams of servitors and tech-priests focused on repairing the Astartes' armor. And yet …

As they entered the vast room, Kakios saw a Land Raider that didn't appear to have ever suffered any damage. In fact, it didn't even seem to have ever been in battle …

'Could it be … ?'

'Yes,' confirmed Arken. 'This is the first of the deliveries from our new ally, according to the terms of the contract. I must say, I didn't think the code-daemon would be able to create one so perfectly on the first try, even with the data we gave it. I am looking forward to the other … commands I have made. Of course, we will need to gather resources to trade before we can obtain them ...'

'How long was I asleep ?! These things are supposed to take months to be made !'

'And perhaps that's just how much time it took. Who knows ? Mulor Tertius is so deep in the Warp that it may have been months down there since we picked you up. Anyway, how would you like to name it ?'

Kakios looked at his lord with surprise in his eyes.

'Name it ?'

'Yes. It was your pack that paid the price for it, wasn't it ? It is only fitting that I entrust it to you and your men then. Besides, the Fourth Legion is famous for its mastery of heavy machinery like this. Your Techmarine is already inside, checking that everything is alright. So far, he has only reported the most minor modifications to the initial design.'

Kakios looked at the colossal war-machine. To think that this was his to command … He had piloted a Land Raider once, during the Great Crusade. He remembered well the feeling of absolute power, the invulnerability one felt when leading such a tank into battle.

'Then I accept your gift with gratitude, my lord. Me and my men shall lead the _Antipater's Wrath _into battle in your name, for the glory of the Forsaken Sons !'

* * *

Aaaaand it's done !

This chapter was a little more difficult to write than the previous one. I had a fair bit of research to make for the simulations and some of the details. By the way, if you find any inconsistency, warn me about them please !

So, with this chapter, the Forsaken Sons have made an alliance with a daemonic forge-world. They will be able to resupply there if they have what it takes to pay - hey, they would trust the code-daemon even less if it didn't have anything to win in the bargain.

In the next chapter ... I have no idea. Too many possibilities ! I will choose one of them soon, but right now, I have absolutely no clue. If you have an idea, mention it in your review. Even if I don't use it right away, you may see it appear in later chapters.

Once more, I would like to thank everyone who read this story and review it. It is a great help in gathering the motivation to write. I really like telling the story of the Forsaken Sons, and I intend to keep going it for as long as I can.

I will see you for the next chapter, in one week or two.

Zahariel out.


	7. Chapter 7 : Under the cover of the Dark

AN :

Hello, dear readers !

I have finished another chapter of the Forsaken Sons' evil deeds, and it is my pleasure to present it to you.

First thing, WARNING! this chapter contains spoilers for the Horus Heresy. Especially, about the Alpha Legion. That is, if anything can be considered canon about these slippery bastards. More on that at the end of the chapter.

Secondly, I would like to thank all my reviewers, and answer some of their questions :

Lightning King : thank you, and you are right. It is time indeed.

Khorne : BLOOD FOR THE BLOOD GOD !

Guest : the _gift _of Arken is the fact that he doesn't need to, and cannot, sleep. This is a gift/curse/something from the Dark Gods of Chaos that he received during the Exodus.

Giodan : this one is a bit complicated. Firstly, it _is _possible to kill a daemon. That is something that the Dark Gods can do, so we know it is doable. Secondly, the code-daemon is a bit particular. At its 'birth' it was a very small, very weak daemon. It grew stronger while infecting Mulor Tertius' machines, and went from a simple line of scrap code to a giant entity of all-encompassing awareness. But if it is 'destroyed', it will go back to the Warp, yes ... and lose all the power and intelligence it has gained since its manifestation. It would be like oblivion for the daemon, and Arken knows it, which is why he words it like he does.

Did that convince you ? If not, just think Arken was bluffing and the daemon bought it because it was impressed.

I don't own the WH40k universe. It belongs to Games Workshop.

Now, the chapter ! I will see you again at the end.

* * *

The elders of the clan spoke of many things during the gatherings. They knew a lot, for they had lived long lives. Some of them longer than any other on all of the Land, it was said. Some of them even remembered a time when the skies hadn't been black. They spoke of it rarely, only in whispers, as if they were afraid that to talk of the Great Fire or his Silver Queen and her Shining Daughters would draw the ire of the Stalkers. Perhaps they were right to do so. Perhaps this was mere superstition. Mahlone did not know.

The young boy knew, however, that he liked the stories of before the Dark. They were sad, of course, because they always made him think of what his people had lost, but to know that the Dark hadn't _always _been here was … conforting ? Warming ? Mahlone didn't know any word to design what he felt when he could persuade an elder to tell him what the Land had been before the Dark. It was akin to what he had felt when he had been but an infant, clutching to his mother near the fire, knowing that he was safe here, that the Stalkers wouldn't attack the camp.

It had been a false knowledge, of course, as he had learned when the Stalkers had taken his mother so long ago. The elders said that it had been years, but what was a year ? The people of the Land couldn't understand what they meant by it. They measured time, when they bothered with it at all, in the periods of rest and activity. They hunted and scavenged amidst the stones until they were too tired to keep evading the Stalkers, at which point they returned to the camp. When they met humans of other clans, sometimes they fought, sometimes they traded, sometimes they ignored each other. When they found a Stalker's nest, they destroyed it, killing the young before they could grow. It was a dangerous deed, as it drew the anger of the parent, but it was the only way to prevent the Stalkers from growing too numerous. That was the way of life in the Land, the only way Mahlone had ever known, the only way there had been since the coming of the Dark.

_That _story wasn't one he liked. According to the elders, it had been a time even worse than those that had followed. Creatures called Daemons, even more cruel and twisted that the Stalkers had walked the Land, spectres out of Hell who drew power from the Dark itself to manifest. They had hunted the people for a long time, until finally, they had vanished. But they had left behind the Dark, and the Stalkers which were said to be their spawn – the product of their mating with humans. But if the Daemons were the makers of the Stalkers, why did the elders insist that the children who were born different from the others had to been killed, lest they join the ranks of the Dark's hunters ? It did not make sense to Mahlone. But then again, he was just a boy. There was a lot of things he didn't understand.

Another story told of a giant who had fallen from the sky on wings of fire, an angel that had been banished from Heaven and who had brought the Dark and the Daemons upon the Land in vengeance before descending in person to inflict further torments. But the elders told that story even less often than those about the time before the Dark, for none of them could claim to have ever seen the Fallen One – the stories about him originated from the nightmares and the visions that had stricken the people of the Land during the Coming of the Dark, and, more rarely, in the times that had followed. Sometimes these visions even revealed secrets to the elders – where to find the nest of a Stalker that had been particularly aggressive, or the direction to new scavenging grounds. Sometimes, they were lies and traps, and led the deceived clan into ruin and extinction. But never could the elders who received these visions know whether or not they were true, for the designs of the Fallen One were impossible to understand to mortals. So, more often than not, the clan's chiefs took the risk of following the message, as while it sometimes brought trials, denying them was said to draw the wrath of the destitute angel.

'Hey, Mahlone,' said Ygdal. 'Wake up. We've got to go.'

The boy stirred from his reveries, and faced his friend. Ygdal was tall for his age, two heads taller than Mahlone. He was strong, too, and some whispered on his back that he wasn't smart. Mahlone knew better : Ygdal just seemed to be slow because he always took the time to consider everything he did. Dirty white hair hung to his shoulders, the mark of those born after the Dark had come. Mahlone wore that mark as well, though he kept his own hair short – at the cost of many cuts on his skull's skin when he used whatever blade he had at hand to cut his mane.

Like Mahlone, Ygdal was an orphan. Unlike him, he hadn't lost both of them to the Stalkers. His father had been a hunter and had vanished one cycle, never to return to the camp, while his mother had died during a battle with another clan for control of a pond of water. It had been during that battle that both of the youngsters had killed another of the Land's people for the first time, fighting side by side.

'Have the hunters returned ?' he asked, his own voice just as soft as Ygdal's. Everyone in the Land spoke softly, in an effort not to be heard by the Stalkers. In fact, he couldn't remember hearing anyone raise his or her voice apart for the screams when the Stalkers caught someone.

'No,' answered Ygdal. 'But the chief says that we need to move regardless. If they are still alive, they will catch up to us.'

'How will they know where we are ?'

It was a valid question. When a clan moved the position of its camp, it did so with great care, erasing all traces of its former presence. The remnants of a camp could be studied, after all, the strength of the clan that had inhabited it determined from what it had left behind. And if a clan was weak, then others could decide to attack it. Mahlone didn't think it cruel or evil : it was simply the way of life in the Land. Traces of the moving clan were also erased, so as to diminish the chances that they may be attacked while on the move. Some clans had tried to leave signs for those they had been forced to leave behind, but they had been exterminated. Apparently, regardless of the subtlety of the signs, the Stalkers were able to find and follow them to the exposed prey that had laid them out.

Ygdal simply shrugged, and Mahlone understood. The chief couldn't afford to wait any longer. They had stayed here too long already – he had slept six times since they had set camp here – and the Stalkers were doubtlessly already starting to converge on them, drawn to their presence by the smell of fresh prey. Even if the hunters hadn't returned, they just couldn't risk staying at the same place any longer.

As he rose and gathered his few belongings, Mahlone briefly wondered what life would be like if they didn't have to move regularly. They could built better shelters, gather bigger stocks, perhaps even start cultivating the mushrooms that made a good portion of their diet …

Useless thoughts. He needed to focus on the present : moving. Then, if the hunters didn't come back, he and Ygdal would have to help gather food. Until now, their tasks in the clan had consisted in helping with the cycle-to-cycle life in the camp, but they had learned some of the tricks of the hunters. Not all of them, of course, but if no one else remained, they would have to go out of the camp's relative security and find supplies for the rest of the clan.

'Let's go then,' he finally said, having finished packing his possessions in a small tissue bag that his mother had made for him before her death. All around him, the rest of the clan was doing the same, and though a few were obviously reluctant to leave this place – those whose relatives were among the hunters – none challenged the chief's decision. It was the only course of action possible and they all knew it, bitter as it may be.

Soon all was ready. The traces of the camp were erased, and sixty-two men and women of various ages started to walk amidst the ruins of what had once been the hive-world called Mulor Secundus.

* * *

Of all the great towers, spires and buildings that had once graced the hives of the planet, only one remained standing. It had been the center of this world, the host of the minds that controlled every aspect of life across continents made one by the draining of the oceans. From its myriad of rooms, acolytes and servants of the Adeptus Administratum had brought order to the logistical nightmare that had been Mulor Secundus' daily life.

Now, the governor's palace stood still, but empty and derelict. When the Warp Storm had claimed this world and the horrific denizens of the Empyrean had been unleashed upon its people, less than a few hundred thousand out of billions had survived. The governor himself had died quickly, but he had discovered that death wasn't the end the Imperial Truth had claimed it to be. Even now, the warrior that looked down upon Mulor Secundus from the man's former office thought he could hear his screams as his soul endured yet another torture at the daemons' hands.

Time had flowed strangely on the planet since the Storm had cut it off from the rest of the Universe. By his power armor's chronometers' account, the warrior had been down on the planet for less than a month. But by the count of his twin heartbeats that he had kept since his arrival, it had been almost six decades.

He had been warned that this would happen – in fact, his entire mission relied upon it. He had known that he would be alone on this damned world, alone to perform his commander's orders. Failure from his part would doom the whole thing, for there would be no back-up, no help coming from his brothers outside of this planet's cosmic isolation cell.

But still … solitude on such a scale … it had marked him. And the Warp Storm – what the survivors called, with a simplicity that was almost perfectly apt, the Dark – hadn't helped matters. He was a wholly different being that he had been when he had descended upon the planet in a drop-pod covered in arcane symbols so as to breach through the barrier of blackness that surrounded Mulor Secundus. His armor and his flesh had changed, altered by the same powers that had given life to the race of mutants that now hunted the remnants of the planet's population. Under the ceramite plates, his skin was covered in thin scales like those of a reptile, and his helmet hide the vertical pupils of his eyes, the vanishing of his nose, melted back into his face, and his forked tongue.

His armor was … _alive_, that was the only word for it. It fed off his bloodstream, draining heat from him to sustain its mechanisms. He had to spend long periods near fires that were increasingly difficult to aliment so that he wouldn't fall prey to hypothermia. Its machine-spirit had become some alliance of mechanic and daemonic, and it hungered for its wearer's life. Every moment was a battle to keep his own equipment from claiming his soul.

Yet this transformation also had its advantages. In return for heat, the armor kept his metabolism active, feeding him his own recycled waste over and over without any loss of nutritional value – an impossibility made real by whatever energies now animated his armor.

The sound of an alarm drew the warrior out of his meditation, and he turned back to the last functioning piece of technological wonder on this world. An entire wall of the giant office was covered in screens, reporting data sent by a thousand servo-skulls scattered across the planet. Another wall was covered in writing from the warrior's own hand – notes on all the thousands of bloodlines he was monitoring. For three generations, he had stood vigil, watching over the remnants of this world's people – the strongest, harshest and most determined of the billions that had once lived meaningless lives in slavery to the Imperium.

For decades, he had acted in the shadows, visiting some of the clans' elders under the cover of enough drugs to make them believe his visits were mere dreams, and influenced their decision. He had brought some clans closer to new hunting ground, and others into yet harsher lands, where they would almost inevitably go extinct.

The servo-skulls had also been put to use for more than just spying : they had sprayed pheromones to drive away some of the Stalkers, or bring them closer, and ensure that some of the humans with the most interesting traits would mate and give birth to a next generation even more suited to the designs of the warrior's lord.

As the near-omniscient watcher of Mulor Secundus, he had made reality the great plan of his master : emulating natural selection with his own will in command, to make this world's people into what the lord of the Forsaken Sons required for his warband. To this end, he had become both a guardian and a plague on the humans, though they didn't know of him.

_We need replacements for the brothers we have lost, my friend. Some will be found on Mulor Prime, but the conditions on Mulor Secundus make it uniquely suited for us to harvest specimens gifted with great potential._

Such had been the words of Arken the Awakened One when he had explained his plan to battle-brother Jikaerus, formerly an Apothecary of the Alpha Legion, now as loyal and dedicated to the Forsaken Sons as any other aboard the _Hand of Ruin_. Alpharius and Omegon's plan to bring Horus upon the Throne of Terra had failed, and now, with his Legion scattered to the corners of the galaxy, each group of the Twentieth Legion had to choose its own course, as was the way of Alpharius' sons. Those that had been rescued from Terra – where they had been at the behest of their Primarch, a separate force from the rest of the Legion, scattered across the galaxy to hinder the loyalists' efforts – had made their choice : they would follow Arken until death came to them all.

The rank of the Son of Horus had nothing to do with his command of the warband : ranks inter-legion had always been a tricky matter, and the fact that Arken's own title of Commander was a customized rank due to his command of the prototype ship that was the _Hand of Ruin _didn't help that. Even Alexandre, the World Eater who had died during the first strike on Mulor Prime, before Jikaerus had been sent to the second planet of the system, had held a technically higher rank that the Awakened One's.

No, it had been Arken's prowess in battle and words about their Primarch – though the Awakened One didn't know, and would never know, of his dual nature – that had convinced Jikaerus' brothers that he was a leader worth following, one who would bring glory to his warband and inflict much damage upon the Imperium. And despite the confusion that had occurred during the rebellion, Jikaerus was convinced that one thing remained true : the Imperium _must _fall. It was the one constant in a universe that had stopped to make sense in a web of lies and deceptions on a galactic scale, and the warrior clung to it like a drowning man to a floating log. Unseemly, perhaps, but it was the only thing that had kept him from going _too much _insane during his decades of near-absolute isolation. For he was insane, of that there was little doubt : he could hear meaningless whispers in the shadows, as if surrounded by conspirators, and some of the plans he had made, upon later examinations, were so obviously flawed that he wondered how he had come to make them in the first place. And then there were the voices of the damned, though he wasn't certain if that last part was him or the place where he had made his lair.

When he looked up at what had caused the alarm, he saw that one of the clans had started to move without waiting for its hunters to come back. That had been a good decision : the hunters were already dead. They had been attacked by a pack of Stalkers, and failed to defeat the mutants.

But despite this decision, the clan was still doomed. The road they had taken would bring them near another group of humans, one which had proved in the past its members' eagerness to kill other survivors with little to no provocation. With most of their warriors lost, the walking clan would be either slaughtered or enslaved.

And that was something Jikaerus simply couldn't allow. He had invested too much time in the running clan – their loss of warriors had been a freak occurrence, something he had known could happen and had made contingencies for, but not something he had actually believed would happen. The bloodlines he had carefully cultivated to be free of mutation – a task whose growing irony hadn't escaped him – while becoming more potent with each generation were now in peril.

In seconds, his mind reviewed all the possibilities that were still open to him, the back-up plans he had set up for such situations. One of the tenets of the Alpha Legion's teachings was that there wasn't such a thing as an event that couldn't be turned to one's advantage, regardless of how dire it may seem. There was a way to make this apparent setback into … Yes. Here it was. A plan designed just for such a situation, and that he had reviewed enough time to be almost sure that it wasn't the fruits of one of his crisis of madness. Sometimes, being forced to double-check all of his work could be … _tedious_.

Jikaerus commanded his armor's machine-spirit and the daemonic hybrid complied, projecting schematics and graphs on his visual lenses. The Marine checked the numbers, the position of the different clans, and saw that all was as he had anticipated.

He felt something that he hadn't felt in a long time : exultation. Finally, it seemed, he would be able to reach the objective of his self-imposed exile on this miserable ruined planet. If he could pull off this last gambit, there would be enough potential reinforcements on Mulor Secundus for him to send the signal to the _Hand of Ruin_. At least, he could be reunited with his brothers.

The Space Marine went to the lowest level of the governor's palace, and entered a room that had once been occupied by hundred of vehicles, waiting here for adepts needing to be brought to any point of the hive-city and beyond. Now, the vehicles – cars and aerial transport alike – were nothing but wreckage, torn apart by the daemons or looted by Mulor Secundus' survivors. Only one still stood : Jikaerus' own customized war-bike. He had stolen it from a White Scar's Legionary during the Siege of Terra, and made it as silent as it was possible. A Space Marine could hear it coming, but to mortals, it was all but impossible to detect. During his exile, it had allowed him to reach any corner of Mulor Secundus quickly. Now, it was time for it to be put to the test once more. The destination Jikaerus had in mind was far from the palace, and time was of the essence. He sat on the engine and executed the appropriate rites to ensure the bike was in a state to perform what he was about to ask of it.

Then, once he was sure that his steed wouldn't fail him, Jikaerus of the Forsaken Sons, former Apothecary of the Twenty-Fourth Great Company of the Alpha Legion, now alone, mutant and heretic, activated his bike, and started his course to the location of what he hoped would be his last action on the world his lord's actions had doomed to an endless night where even the stars had gone dark.

* * *

Mahlone and Ygdal walked at the back of the small caravan, carrying packs that the elders were unable to bear themselves. Some had claimed that the old men and women were burden that should be abandoned, but these were fools. The knowledge and wisdom of the elders was priceless in keeping the clan alive. So, despite the weight of the combined packs, the youngsters gritted their teeth and forced themselves to keep pace with the rest of the clan.

All around them, as far as they could see in the little pocket of light emitted by their torches, was the wreckage of what the elders said had once been a great city. Though the concept of city was alien to Mahlone, he recognised that those who had created things that had become so much rubble when they had been destroyed had to be mighty indeed. Rocks were everywhere, with only the most narrow of paths left available through them.

The people's ears were strained to perceive the echos of their own steps and breath, their minds thriving to render an image of their surroundings. That skill had appeared soon after the coming of the Dark, when the people of the Land hadn't yet found the means to craft torches from the fungus that grew on the ruins and had been forced to rely on increasingly scarce sources of light from the past. Mahlone had once seen such a relic function – it was an old thing, kept preciously by one of the elders. It had wondered him that his ancestors had been able to trap light in little boxes such as this one for later use.

Without any reliable source of light, the hearing of the Land's people had grown stronger with time, and now they were able to map their surroundings almost a hundred meters around them, while the hunters, who were forced to forsake the use of their eyes entirely, could run and fight with nothing more than their ears, nose and hands to guide them. The humans weren't the only ones to have picked up that ability : Mahlone had seen several Stalkers' corpses before the monsters were burned, the scent of their burnt flesh nearly unbearable but a very effective repellent to their kindred. The creatures were all of different forms and shapes, but they had shared one common trait : eyes that were either blind or absent entirely. The young man's memories rose to the surface : creatures covered in feathers or scales, with fangs the size of a grown man's arm or claws dripping with venom ...

'Stop dreaming,' said Ygdal. He hadn't even turned to face his companion, but knew him enough.

Mahlone shook himself out of his reveries, and focused on the march. One step after another, while keeping his senses alert. Without the hunters to keep watch over the clan, the responsibility of being on guard at every moment fell to all.

'Thank you,' he whispered to his friend.

'It's nothing,' answered the giant. He had long grown used to Mahlone's habit of losing himself in his thoughts, regardless of the situation.

The clan kept walking for a long time, almost an entire cycle. They climbed several mounts of rubble, careful in their footing. Despite the hurry they were in, no member of the clan harmed himself during the perilous journey. Finally, they arrived at what the chief judged to be an appropriate place for setting up their camp. They began to drop their bags and install what little kindling they had carried with them to start the great fire at the center of the camp.

Mahlone and Ygdal were helping the others when the first hint that something wasn't right arrived. The clan's chief, a man who according to the elders' strange way of measuring time had survived for thirty years and bore the name of Avidane, who had been helping deploy the circle of metal stakes that was to surround the camp – one of the most effective defences against Stalker's attacks, as the charging beasts couldn't perceive the weapons before they tore into their flesh – whistled a signal that was known to all of his brethren.

Instantly, all movements ceased, and near-absolute silence fell upon the camp. Each man and woman focused, some of them closing their eyes to heighten their hearing further. The signal meant that the chief thought he had heard something but did not know what, and needed silence to identify the disturbance. Perhaps the hunters had returned, thought Mahlone with a surge of hope in his heart. Or perhaps, more sensibly, it had merely been a false alarm, the sound detected by the chief a mere rock falling after months of oscillating in precarious position …

Then Mahlone heard the battle-cry of another clan and the sound of men charging as the need for discretion was cast to the wind, and he knew that he and his people were doomed. Tens of men and women emerged from their hiding places all around the camp, carrying the crude weapons that the people of the Land were able to create – iron bars, blades salvaged from the ruins, and the very rare and unique firearm, with its precious ammunition, granting its wielder great advantage against any foe, no matter his skill.

They were outnumbered, unprepared, and surrounded. They were all going to die or be captured and enslaved, thought Mahlone with a strange, cold detachment. His clan – his family – was going to be destroyed, not by the Stalkers or the dangers of the Land, but by his fellow humans.

There was something about that fact that striked him as being fundamentally _wrong_. This wasn't how it should be. He had shared these thoughts with Ygdal before, when his friend's mother had been killed at the hands of another clan. The giant had agreed. Something was wrong with the Land, that it made humans kill other humans. Or perhaps, he had added with a grim expression, something was wrong with _them_. Had they not killed, too ?

Yes. They had. And now, they would do so again.

A scream rose from the depths of Mahlone's being, filled with rage at the fate of his brethren. He drew his weapon – a steel axe he had taken as trophy from the corpse of the man he had killed – and charged the closest assailant. Ygdal was but a step behind him, his own tool of death – a club of iron the size of Mahlone's tight – clutched firmly in both hand.

He came face-to-face with his foe : a man wearing the same dirty, half-ruined clothing as he, and gripping a spear made of an iron bar with a knife knotted to the extremity. Recognising the range of the weapon as the primary threat of the duel, Mahlone advanced toward the stranger. He blocked the spear's assault with his own weapon before punching the man in the face and kicking him between his legs, too fast for him to react. As the enemy fell on the ground, Mahlone brought his axe into an arc that cut the throat of the man and spilled his blood on the stone. The young man saw the liquid flow with a dark satisfaction, and the words of Ygdal seemed truer – and more wrong – than ever. They were killers, and that was a cruel thing … but it was the _right _state of things in a world that had no mercy for the weak. To kill or to be killed – it was the only way of the Land. With the taste of blood on his lips and Ygdal at his back, he plunged once more into the fray, determined to make the enemy pay a heavy tribute for its attack.

More and more foes came to confront him, and Mahlone's axe tore through flesh, finding the weaknesses and vulnerabilities in his opponents' guard with preternatural ease. Time seemed to have slowed down around him, leaving his enemies moving as if underwater. No enemy could reach him, and his axe reaped a harvest of lives that made his heart sang with pride.

At his back, covering Mahlone as instinctively as Mahlone was covering him, Ygdal fought with a fury barely contained but contained nonetheless. Each of his strike was given with the precise amount of force required, shattering bones and creaking skulls open. Each attack of his enemies was met with a parry, diverted to the side, or taken head one in return for an opportunity to finish his current adversary. The young man was covered in wounds, his own blood soaking his shirt, but his tremendous endurance allowed him to ignore the combined effect of the superficial cuts.

On and on the two friends fought, their mind occluded by the red veil of battle, locked in a seemingly endless dance of war made of attacks, parries and ripostes. More and more corpses fell to the ground as they moved through the battlefield their camp had become, rallying the rest of their brethren behind them. Overcome by the sensations of battle, Mahlone howled at the back sky, the sound sending the assailants reeling back, fear clearly visible on their pale faces. He felt something, a shadow at the back of his awareness, that was watching him, judging him. Somehow, he felt as if he had to prove himself to whatever that presence was. Lowering his head, he charged once more into the fray.

* * *

Jikaerus was smiling under his helm. After hiding his bike some distance from the site and running the rest of the way with all the stealth a son of Alpharius was capable of, he had arrived just in time for the battle's beginning, and it looked as if the bet he had taken was going to pay off. The pheromones he had diffused on the battling humans had been specially calibrated to the two youngsters – the products of carefully engineered bloodlines – in order to awaken their latent potential.

The smaller one possessed both a rage that evoked that of the World Eaters and a gift for anticipating his opponents' moves that had taken much discreet chemical injections to bring. The taller one was possessed of a stamina far above that of a common man, with a mind more grounded to balance his counterpart's regrettable tendencies to daydreaming – a byproduct of his enhanced subconscious. And these two were only a sample of what he had made of the people of this world, using the terribly selective environment and the tools he had brought from the ship ! The other Fleshmasters would be amazed of what he had wrought here, with very limited resources. At least, they would if these two survived the test of battle : only then would Jikaerus be satisfied with his results. If they died, he would start anew, even if it took him another half-century. He would accept nothing less than the best from those who were to receive the gene-seed stored aboard the _Hand of Ruin's_ Apothecarion.

But despite his own near infinite patience, he wanted this to come to an end. The numbers of the people of this planet were ever-diminishing, and once it reached a certain point, inbreeding and mutations brought by the influence of the Warp cover would cause irredeemable damage to the genetics he had so carefully cultivated. His own stocks of chemicals was also dangerously low. No, he would have to call the Awakened One soon, regardless of the results he had achieved, or die in vain, his mission a complete failure.

But it wouldn't come to that, he was sure. The young humans were magnificent to look at. They lacked the might of the Astartes, of course, but they were examples of what mere mortals could achieve – with a little help from science – and Jikaerus was once more remembered that Arken wanted to add mortal armies to the assets of the Forsaken Sons. When he returned to the ship, he decided, he would ask his lord to allow him to perform the same operations on these mortals that he had on the population of Mulor Secundus.

He saw the thinner boy howl, and for a second he thought he saw the human look straight at him. It was impossible that he had noticed the hiding Astartes … or was it ? And if he had, did that mean that he surpassed even Jikaerus' predictions, or simply that the Space Marine's skills were getting sloopy ? No way to know for certain, he decided. He would have to wait and see.

There weren't many of the assailants left standing by now. No matter – they had been a failure anyway, upon which he had given up years ago. The only reason he hadn't engineered their destruction sooner instead of letting them consume valuable resources was that they could still be useful – in the exact fashion they had been right now. They had helped to bring about the true potential of those he had created, and for that they should feel honored. Their deaths had a lot more meaning that their lives could ever have hoped to have.

The man who had led the boys' tribe – a specimen worthy of interest, too, but too old for integration in the Forsaken Sons and thus expendable – died, his head bursting under the fire of a bolt pistol that the assailants' own leader had somehow managed to scavenge in the ruins. This was worrying. The man had kept the weapon hidden until now – no doubt wanting to spare the ammunition as much as he could. If he was desperate enough to use it, then his next targets would undoubtedly be the boys. And as much as Jikaerus wanted them to be tested, surviving bolter fire without any armor wasn't something he expected from them. Not yet, anyway.

The Astartes drew his own bolt pistol, a model far heavier and more elaborate than what the human clumsily wielded, and took aim. Before the chief could shoot at his specimen, he focused on the shot, eliminating everything else than the target, his gun, and himself, and pushed the trigger.

_And with this_, he thought_, my exile ends. One way or another._

* * *

Mahlone watched as the head of the man who had just killed Avidane exploded in a fountain of gore. The sound of the shot – the same sound that when the headless corpse had slain the chief – rang in his ears, but a dozen times louder.

All fighters, who had been trying to kill each other but seconds ago, froze where they stood. Several fell on their knees, clutching their heads, trying to ease the pain in their ears. Mahlone's own auditory map of his surroundings was lost to the ringing that followed the shot.

Then, he heard another sound. Footsteps, but heavier than any other he had ever heard. His gaze and that of Ygdal turned to the direction of the noise, trying to locate it despite the pain.

A giant was approaching, all the survivors of the battle creeping out of his way as he neared Mahlone and Ygdal. Towering far above the tallest men present, he was clad in metal covered his body entirely and, under the light of the dying fire, appeared green. His head was similarly encased, with two points of red light where the eyes should have been. He held in his hand a weapon similar to the one that the enemy chief had wielded, but far bigger, and yet he seemed able to hold it in one hand. At his hip hung another weapon that Mahlone couldn't identify : it looked like a blade, but was covered in smaller bits of metal, like teeth.

All of his instincts screamed at Mahlone that the being was dangerous, and when he saw what was depicted on its shoulder, he was terrified. For the giant bore the mark of the multi-headed dragon, and this creature appeared in only one kind of story : those about the Fallen One. An angel stood before him, the one who had plunged his world into the Dark and was responsible for all that had happened since.

Anger rose in him, banishing his fear. With an wordless snarl, he jumped at the giant, his axe risen. Part of him knew that he didn't stand a chance of killing or even hurting an angel, but he didn't care. He wanted revenge for all that had been done to the Land, and he would either have it or die. Behind him, he heard Ygdal's warning shout, but he didn't listen to the words.

Before he could make three steps, something hit him at the back of his head, and he fell on the ground. The last thing he saw before falling unconscious was Ygdal dropping his club and seizing him before he hit the stones beneath them, and the last thought that crossed his mind was : why had his friend hit him ?

* * *

'Clever,' said Jikaerus, his voice hissing because of the deformation of his tongue. 'You knew I would kill him if he attacked me, so you prevented him from doing so, even if that meant attacking your own friend. Quick thinking.'

The boy looked up at him, his eyes filled with the same anger that had filled those of his friend, but colder and contained. Good. The boys could hate him if they wanted – in fact, this would give them purpose, and the strength to survive the implantation procedures. It would be dangerous for him once they were transformed into Astartes, but by then it would be a wonder if anything remained of their former personalities.

'You want to kill me too, don't you ?' asked Jikaerus. 'I can see it in your eyes.'

The young human didn't move an inch, nor did his expression change. Jikaerus continued :

'But you cannot kill me as you are. You are too weak. You know that.' He gestured at the rest of the humans, still petrified in fear and awe.

'None of you here have the strength to kill me … but I could give it to you. My lord and master needs warriors, soldiers to fight in his wars against the false god who has betrayed us all. If you were to join his armies, he would give you the same power I possess … and, in time, you may be able to claim vengeance, if you still desire it.'

'Now, tell me, boy : what do you want ? To die here, on this worthless planet, forgotten by all ? Or to break free, to see the universe beyond this cover of darkness ? To see the starts and travel through them as one of the strongest warriors of the galaxy, free to impose his will over all and having nothing to fear ?'

'Make your choice, boy.'

* * *

Cold, and dark. Those were the first two things that Mahlone felt when he woke up. Then he opened his eyes, and it wasn't dark anymore. It was so bright, in fact, that he shut his eyes back closed, the light burning them.

A few seconds later, he looked again, eyes only half-open. He was laying on a metal floor, with a metal roof a few meters above his head. That was new. He knew what a roof was : he had heard the description of houses from the elders, and the shelters they built had one. But he had never actually seen one so clearly made to last longer than just a few cycles.

'Where am I ?' he groaned. Then the memory of what had happened hit him. He had attacked the Fallen One, and Ygdal had struck him down from behind before he could try to strike at the giant. Of course, looking back, without the rage of the battle to obscure his thoughts, he could understand why his friend had done so, but ...

'Awake, at last ? Get up, Mahlone. Now.'

The voice of his friend, here ? And why was it filled with such urgency ?

Mahlone forced himself up, and saw that Ygdal was standing near him, facing something like twenty other boys the same age as them. There was hostility in their eyes – not true anger, simply the reflex hostility of animals who instinctively knew they were in competition with each other. It wasn't hard to imagine what had happened : they had seen Mahlone unconscious and had wanted to finish what Ygdal had started before he could wake up.

'Where are we ?' asked Mahlone again, his voice sore.

The room was broad, several hundred paces broad, and walls of metal closed all around them. Ygdal and him were near one of the wall, their back turned toward it while they faced the other youngsters. More of them were staying away from the confrontation – Mahlone estimated their number to several hundred, at least. He had never seen so many people gathered in one place. Some of them looked like people of the Land – pale skin and broad eyes – and others were of complexion and aspect unlike anything he had ever seen before.

'We aren't in the Land anymore, Mahlone,' answered Ygdal to Mahlone's question. It took a second to the lad to remember what it was he had asked. 'The Fallen One called his brothers, and they took us, and them too, with him.'

'What ?! Then _where _are we ?'

'Beyond the Dark. On a floating city, that sails the void between the Shining Daughters.'

'Ah !' snarled one of the others. 'Ignorant primitives. We are aboard the _Hand of Ruin_, you idiot ! The ship of Lord Arken the Awakened One, Commander of the Forsaken Sons !'

'Who the hell are you to speak to us like that ?' asked Ygdal, his voice dangerously calm. The other young man, who wore clothes more colored and in better state – if still a bit dirty – than anything Mahlone had ever seen, spoke arrogantly :

'I am Radomir Sertanov, scion of the House Sertanov, lords and masters of the world of Mulor Prime, and future warrior of the Forsaken Sons ! Although it is more than a bit insulting to see that I am put with wretches like you !'

Anger rose again in Mahlone's chest. He groaned threateningly, and began to walk toward the source of his rage, but Ygdal held him back, his arm stretched to block his path, his head moving slowly from left to right. Understanding his friend's wordless message, Mahlone forced himself to calm down. He looked at Ygdal, and asked :

'Why did the Fallen One's brothers brought us here ?'

'They want us to join them, Mahlone. The Fallen One told me that he had waited long for «worthy subjects», whatever that means.'

'How did we end up here ?'

'After I clubbed you – sorry about that, by the way – the Fallen One asked me if I wanted revenge against him too. He told me that we could get it if we came with him; that his lord would share his power with us and that we would be the Fallen One's equals. I accepted his offer.'

'You were right to do so,' said Mahlone, his voice dripping with hatred as more and more memories returned to him. 'That bastard must pay, whatever the price. What happened next ?'

'The Fallen One did … something. I don't know why. Then a great _thing _came from the sky, with the Fallen One's kindred in its belly, and it took us away. We traveled through the Land, faster than anything, and when we stopped, the Fallen One and his brothers went and came back with more guys. Finally, they gave us all something to drink that made us fall asleep, and when my eyes opened, we were here with these guys.'

'So … we are going to become angels ?'

'Not _angels_, you ignorant, brain-dead fool,' spat Radomir. '_Astartes_. Perfect warriors, carrying the blood of the divine and the favor of the True Gods.'

Mahlone looked at the arrogant son of Stalker again. This one, he decided, wasn't going to live long.

* * *

'A most impressive batch, I must admit, Jikaerus.'

'Thank you, my lord,' said the Apothecary, bowing before Arken.

The two Astartes were watching the aspirants from another room, using cameras to survey their actions. Other Fleshmasters were reading documents and reports about the analysis that had been conducted on the humans while they were sedated, searching for signs that would announce incompatibility. So far, they hadn't found anything in those they had brought from Mulor Secundus.

'What about you ? Are you alright ? You said you were down there for decades. Did anything happen to you, brother ?'

Jikaerus hesitated. Should he confess his mutations ? Yet again, it wasn't as if he would be able to conceal them forever. And he doubted the Awakened One would kill him simply because of that. He was too … calculating to throw away an asset that had proved its value.

'Some changes in my flesh and armor,' he admitted. 'Nothing too important to prevent me from functioning at full ability.'

'Good. What you have done is truly impressive, Jikaerus. I will need your services again in the future, though I will try to make sure it isn't as taxing for you as it was with this instance.'

For several minutes, the two Marines stood silent, watching as the aspirants played a game as old as life itself : the game of influence and intimidation that occurred whenever pack animals were suddenly together. Finally, Jikaerus asked :

'What will we do now, my lord ? We have taken everything we could from this system. Where are we going next ?'

Arken didn't speak for a few seconds, and Jikaerus feared that he had spoken out of station. Then the Awakened One answered :

'To another system, some ten weeks of Warp-travel away. It is called Parecxis.'

* * *

AN : and it is done !

There has been some difficulty with this chapter. Some sources say that the Alpha Legion wasn't at Terra, but as everything with this Legion, it is unclear and contradictory. So I have just rolled with the idea that _some _of it was at the Siege, and were rescued by Arken. I also knows that there is a whole theory that the Alpha Legion is actually loyalist and pretend to be traitor to be able to fight Chaos from within, but I personally don't buy it. I mean, _some _of its members may be loyalists. But the Legion is too scattered for some of them not to have succumbed to Chaos totally, especially since the latest books of the Horus Heresy seem to imply an inner ploy and betrayal between the twin Primarchs.

Secondly, I used this chapter to clear a bit of confusion about Arken's former rank, by using shamelessly the 'prototype' status of the _Hand of Ruin_.

That's all for now. The next chapter will come out in a week or two, as usual.

If you enjoyed this chapter, see canon incoherences, have an idea for the future of this fic, or simply want to signal errors, please review !

Zahariel out.


	8. Chapter 8 : The End of Perfection

AN :

At least, it is finished !

This one chapter took me a little longer than the other. I had originally planned to make it a lot longer, then finally settled for making it into several parts.

I have been a little slow with this one ... and I have no other excuses that this one : this site itself is at fault. I must have spent hours this last week reading other fics without noticing the ticking of the clock. Worst is, I was reading things completely unrelated to Warhammer, filled with silly things like love, comedy, and friendship. All things that, I think you will agree, have no place in the grim darkness of the thirty-first millenium.

So, sorry for the delay. I would say that this won't happen again, but we all know how this kind of promises end ...

Anyway, before we get to the story, I would first like to thank all of you who take time to read and review this story.

Death's Watcher : yeah, the Alpha Legion doesn't have much screen time after the Horus Heresy. Perhaps when the serie is over and we know more about what in the Warp happened, authors will feel more free to include them in their own stories.

Khorne : BLOOD ! SKULLS ! SOULS ! ... but the recruits will have to wait a bit. They are still, well, mere humans, and the process of transformation takes a while.

A Person : thanks for your compliments. And I have heeded your advice for this chapter - though it won't appear obvious at first. While many authors get away with introducing loads and loads of characters, I don't think I have the skill to pull that out for now. The problem is, this is a story about a warband with a LOT of Astartes in it, and if I want to give each Legion screentime, I will have no choice but to introduce more in future chapters. Still, I will be careful.

I do not own the WH40K franchise or any of the things related to it. All of them belong to Games Workshop.

And now, to the story. I will see you again at the end.

* * *

+++ IMPERIAL RECORD 248Z9-4EZAB666 +++

+++ PARECXIS SYSTEM +++

+++ WORLDS : PARECXIS ALPHA – HIVE WORLD, PARECXIS BETA – GARRISON WORLD, PARECXIS GAMMA – PENAL WORLD +++

+++ POPULATION : APPROXIMATELY 14,000,000,000 – RECORDS FROM THE LOCAL ADEPTUS ADMINISTRATUM, ADRESS EVENTUAL COMPLAINTS ACCORDINGLY +++

+++ NOTABLE ASSETS : DEFENSIVE ORBITAL PLATFORMS AROUND PARECXIS BETA, ORBITAL CONSTRUCTION DOCKS AROUND PARECXIS ALPHA, TERRAFORMED MOON OF PARECXIS ALPHA FOR THE HIGHEST MEMBERS OF THE SOCIETY'S RECREATION +++

+++ DEFENCES : ACCESS REFUSED. REFER TO DIRECTIVE MLA-212871647 FOR FURTHER INFORMATION ABOUT DATA QUARANTINEMENT +++

+++ ACCESS TO THIS REPORT IS RESERVED IS RESERVED TO THOSE WITH A MAGENTA-LEVEL CLEARANCE ONLY +++

+++ THE EMPEROR PROTECTS +++

* * *

Captain and acting Fleet Admiral Oswald Von Libestat was a man of great calm and temperance. For the entirety of the seventy years he had spent in the Imperial Navy, he had been a model officer, rising from his position as mere lieutenant to the command of his own ship, the _Maleficence's Reward_. He had fought in dozens of void engagements, including the pacification of the Parecxis system, and earned his own command in that battle – and no small command either : an Apocalypse-Class Battleship, produced by the newly build orbital docks of the recently freed system.

The battle of Parecxis, he remembered fondly even in these dark times, had been a good war. For weeks, the Imperial Fleet had battled the ships of the Parecxsisian xenos overlords, until boarding actions by the Ultramarines had taken down the enemy's admiral ship.

By that single action, the Astartes had tipped the scales of the campaign in the Imperium's favor. The rest of the xenos fleet had tried to flee, and less than ten ships out of a fleet that had once counted close to a hundred had succeeded. It had been a glorious victory for the Imperial Navy, though Oswald knew that many of his colleagues regretted that they had needed the help of the Space Marines.

Foolishness, Oswald had thought. The Adeptus Astartes was the arm of the Emperor, the instrument of His will across the galaxy just as surely as the Navy itself, or the Imperial Guard – perhaps even more so. Were the Space Marines not the children of His own sons, the Primarchs ? Did they hearts not pump through their enhanced bodies His sacred blood ? That the progeny of the Divine Emperor had fought side by side with mere mortal like them had been an honor. As a believer of the _Lectitio Divinatus –_ albeit he had kept his faith a secret until he had thought the men and women under his command could benefit from it – Oswald Von Libestat had considered himself blessed to be able to watch such peerless warriors in action.

Then the Heresy had come, and the galaxy had screamed while hope and the future burned in the flames of betrayal. The best and brightest son of Him on Earth had turned from his father, pushed to this unthinkable act by the darkest powers of the galaxy : the arch-daemons of the Warp, the abominations that those they had enslaved called the Dark Gods of Chaos.

Horus Lupercal, some said, had destroyed the Imperium even in his ultimate defeat. The Emperor wasn't dead – may He live forever – but he had been crippled by his corrupted son. The Traitor Legions were defeated – but they weren't destroyed. The war was over …

But there had been no victor. Of that, Oswald was bitterly certain. They had _all _lost. And now, in the darkness of a uncertain future, only his faith in the Emperor prevented him from simply crying himself to death over all that had been lost. His faith that the Lord of Mankind had a plan that could save them all, even in this disaster that was the aftermath of the Horus Heresy.

The other thing that had kept him alive – literally : he had seen dozens of men and women, all competent and solid members of his crew, simply wasting away after the Warmaster's death, despair finally overwhelming them at the magnitude of the destruction – had been his duty. Duty to the Emperor, to the Imperium, and, he was not afraid to admit it, to those under his command. They had all fought with him during the war, in engagements that wouldn't be remembered against traitorous elements of the Navy – and while part of him was sad that their heroism wouldn't be remembered, another was glad that there would be no trace of these stains upon the institution's honor.

He had a duty to them : to lead them. To give them purpose. _That _was his duty, the task that the Emperor had intended for him in His great wisdom. Oswald had shared his faith with his crew, and it had spread to the rest of the fleet. It had given hope – it had given strength.

When word of the rebellion had first reached them, it had been under the form of the betrayal of half the fleet, suddenly opening fire on the ships whose commanders they knew wouldn't join the Warmaster. The Fleet Admiral had died in the first moments of the battle, his Emperor-Class Battleship _Loyalty's Due _lost to the traitors' combined fire as he bought time for the rest of the loyalists to escape. Oswald, as the highest ranked surviving officer, had taken command of the remnants of the fleet. At the time, he had two dozen ships under his command, in various state of damage. He had led them into battle, fighting short, bloody raids against the traitors' supply lines or isolated ships, joining other pockets of loyalist forces en route to other zones of the war for brief contact, exchanges of news and information, and the occasional battle together. He had fought in more battle during the years of the Heresy that he had had in the rest of his life, all across the Trebedius Sector.

When the news of Horus' death had arrived, his fleet had been down to twelve ships. Wounded, tired, and victorious by some far-stretched definition of the word, he had returned to the Parecxis system. Thankfully, the system had remained loyal – a fact that, Oswald suspected, had much to do with the fact that it had been freed by the Thirteenth Legion. It had also gone relatively unscathed, and the orbital docks, once they had established their identity and loyalty to the Throne, had welcomed them for repairs.

At the beginning of the war, proving their loyalty would have been quite a conundrum. But now … now, things were different. The traitor ships had been _changed _by those who commanded them. In hindsight, it was obviously the touch of Chaos, spreading from the souls of those who had sided with the Arch-Traitor to the very metal. All the fleet had had to do to prove its loyalty had been to allow envoys to come aboard and examine the ships.

Then, just as it had seemed that calm and order were finally settling back into the galaxy, with the loyal Legions purging the Imperium from the Traitors' presence, a Warp Storm had engulfed them. He had lost four more ships in the first moments of it, the psykers aboard going mad and bursting from within, unleashing beasts from the Immaterium, before ordering all remaining ships to keep their Geller Fields on at all times.

From what their astropaths and Navigators could see, the Warp Storm had taken all of the Trebedius Sector within it. They were cut off from the rest of the Imperium, and even within the Strom communication and warp-travel were all but impossible.

Fortunately, the Parecxis system was self-sustained, with the ships of the fleet to ensure that the different production from each world was brought to the others – promethium from the penal labour camps on Parecxis Gamma, manufactured goods and food rations from the recycling industries of Parecxis Alpha, and the forces needed to preserve order from Parecxis Beta. They had fought back the riots that had broken out in the streets, crushed the rebellion in Parecxis Gamma, and hunted down the cults of Chaos that had sprung out like bad weeds.

They would endure this storm, Oswald had promised to the fleet and the other responsibles of the system. As commander of the only way to travel and carry messages to other worlds – astropaths were no longer reliable, most of them had been put down and the rest were isolated – Oswald had effectively become the military governor of the Parecxis system in all but name. His name and face had been broadcast throughout the system, his voice and words used to calm down a population that, now that it seemed the Emperor couldn't reach them anymore, was starting to panic.

He had told them that it wasn't true, that the Emperor had provided them with all they needed to weather the storm – the only thing he hadn't given them was courage, for it was something they had to find within themselves.

Those had been fine words, and he had even believed in them. Now, however, despite how blasphemous the thought was, even he was beginning to doubt that the Emperor had foreseen what would befell them. He had lost another ship to the daemons, and most of the psykers that had been on board were dead. They had been rebellions on three other vessels, thankfully put down before anything important could be damaged, but they had still lost thousand of crewmembers. And now, this.

'Are you certain ?' he asked to the holopict transmitting the image and words of the last astropath alive he had aboard his ship. The blind, deseccated man nodded once, before starting to ramble again :

_'The Storm pushes them toward us, and those who guide them ride it as we would ride the void ! Powerful presences dwell within the beast : one bearing a thirst of blood that would destroy the stars, one who is prisoner yet whose words go freely, and another … oh, the other … different, yet so much more dangerous … so much hatred, so much evil ! He comes ! Death has come for us all !'_

'Get a hold of yourself, Mathus !' ordered Oslaw, focusing every ounce of command he possessed into his words. He couldn't afford to lose the astropath now.

The veil between reality and the Immaterium was thin in a Warp Storm, but it was still here. An astropath could feel when it was about to be pierced, and that information had been priceless in repulsing several daemonic incursions in the last months.

Throne. Daemonic. How easily even he had fallen back into such superstitious terms and beliefs when the galaxy had stopped to correspond to his views.

_' … Yes. Forgive me, my lord. It is simply … too much. The Storm … It recognises them, Oslaw. It knows them, and it has … affection ? No, this isn't the right word … Gratitude ? No, no, it isn't either … Jealousy, envy, hatred, hunger, thirst, protection, partnership – there is no word in Gothic for what it feels …'_

'Feels ? Mathus, are you implying that the Warp Storm is … sentient, somehow ?'

The image of the astropath smiled in response, an ugly thing born of utter terror and forming madness.

_'Of course it is ! So much emotion, in the Warp, gains a life of its own ! The souls of the dead were used in its birth, gathered by the sons of the First Heretic and sacrificed by the hand of he who never sleeps, and it hates all things … But it hates us even more, oh yes it does … Ah ah … ah ah ah ah ah ah ah aaaaaaahh AAAAAAAAAAAAH - '_

The link cut off abruptly, and Oslaw let out a stream of curses before shouting at his aids :

'Contact the guards of the astropathic chamber ! Possible contamination ! Get in and prepare to purge it if needed !'

The men guarding the room were the most competent and ruthless he had under his command. Members of the Navy's own troops, they had fought back boarding from xenos and traitors alike, and they had never failed him. Yet even them, he knew, would have a hard time dealing with a daemon – if such a thing was possible at all. So, for the sake of the soldiers as well as the old astropath's, he hoped that Mathus was simply having a fit of dementia.

However, before he received any report on what had happened to the blinded psyker, alarms rose from almost every console on the deck. It appeared Mathus' warning, as confused as it may have been, was nonetheless correct.

In a maneuver that they had performed a lot of times during the war, all operators on deck cut off the alarms and focused on whatever their screens were telling them. A few seconds later, just before Oswald ordered a full report to be given to him, Saeger, his second-in-command rose and delivered it :

'A single ship has just emerged from the Warp, sir. It is still at the border of the system. At its current speed, it should reach engaging distance in two hours.'

'Identification ?'

'The _Hand of Ruin_ of the Legione Astartes … Sixteenth Legion, sir,' finished the man before Oswald could ask. 'A model that I have never seen before, but it's twice as big as us and probably filled with traitors.'

'The bastard progeny of Horus himself,' spat the admiral. 'Is there any problem with the rest of the fleet ?'

'No, sir.'

'Then bring every ship in formation to intercept, and patch me through this treacherous dogs' vox. I want to speak with whoever is at its command.'

An image of the enemy ship appeared on the hololith before Oswald. It was a dreadful thing indeed. It had clearly just been repaired – the steel of its side was unevenly damaged by time and battle. Countless weapons pointed out of its frame, from short-range turrets to take down enemy fighters to giant canons the size of a building that could spat plasma or send oversized ordnance through the void. The ship looked like a lone predator, akin to a tiger or a shark – but it lacked the inner nobility of these beasts in Oswald's eyes, instead looking … _twisted_, somehow. The old man didn't know what it must feel to be connected to the machine-spirit of such a vessel, but he doubted it was an agreeable experience. The name of the ship – _Hand of Ruin_, as Saeger had said – was engraved on its side in gold letters a hundred meters high, and beneath it was depicted the image of a horned skull surrounded by a circle of unbroken chain. Whatever foul imagerie was at work here, Oswald didn't want to know.

He was drawn away from his examination – after only a few seconds had passed – by Saeger's voice :

'They are already hailing us, sir. Audio transmission.'

'Open it, then. Standard protocol.'

The 'standard protocol was something the fleet's officers had devised after losing an entire ship to one of the enemy's most vile sorceries. When the captain of the _Purity of Will _had tried to contact a traitor Adeptus Mechanicus' craft to convince it to surrender – a noble gesture, but a foolish one – they had sent in reply sounds that had _somehow _driven his entire command crew, himself included, mad. Now, when attempting communication with traitor ships, only the captain himself could hear whatever passed through the channel, and the second-in-command had a gun pointed at his or her superior's head during all that time. Paranoid, probably. But in the aftermath of the Horus Heresy, those who weren't paranoid were dead.

'This is Admiral Oswald Von Libestat, commander of the _Maleficence's Reward_. In the name of the Emperor, identify yourself, traitor !'

There was a moment of static-filled silence, then the reply came, delivered in the low tones of an Astartes, yet sounding utterly devoid of emotion and feeling. This was the voice of a corpse, thought Oswald for a moment, before suddenly detecting the hatred beneath the apparent calmness. At that moment, the pious captain knew that he was speaking to the third entity Mathus had referred to.

_'This is Commander Arken, former Commander of the Sons of Horus, now master of the Forsaken Sons. I will give you one chance to surrender, admiral. Turn off your ships' engines, drop your shields, and let my men come aboard. Do all this, and you and your crew may live. You may even fight yet another battle, though it would be after you had the lies of the False Emperor exposed to you.'_

Oswald snarled. Did that heretic thought that he would accept his offer ? Most probably not, he decided. This was a taunt, nothing more, made to drive him to make mistakes due to anger. Well, two could play that game, and Oswald had sharpened his skills. Officers who had sided with the Warmaster, he had noticed, tended to have short tempers and big egos. It was probably those traits that had made them vulnerable to the Arch-Traitor's whispers in the first place, and they had only grown worse after their betrayal.

'I will make you another offer, traitor : drop _your _shields and I will grant that hideous piece of garbage that you call a ship and all those who dwell within its putrid bowels a quick death.'

_'You cannot prevail, Admiral. This is the _Hand of Ruin_. We have fought against the warp-born and the forces of Terra themselves, and we have survived. What make you think that you will succeed where they failed ?'_

'My faith in the Emperor is all I need to prevail, heretic.'

For the first time, Oswald heard a bit of emotion creep into the Traitor Marine's voice, anger threatening to break the illusion of calm as he spoke :

_'Faith ?! What do _you _know of faith, old man ? The one whose name you so foolishly invokes isn't a god. He is nothing but a liar and a deceiver, a traitor who sacrificed his own blood-sons to fight and die in his stance while he plotted his ascension, ready to leave us alone in a galaxy that hate us ! We are not traitor, mortal ! We are the only ones who have seen the truth : that there are true gods in this galaxy, and that only by embracing them can Mankind survive ! Cling to the false hope of your so-called faith for as long as you can … We will see if it endures when I toss your souls to the daemons ! I will take your ships as my own, and your men will bow before the Octed. The priests of the Pantheon will turn them to the Primordial Truth, and those who are too blind to see it will feed the Dark Gods' appetite !'_

The communication cut off on these last, ominous words. For a moment, Oswald looked into empty air, before turning toward Saeger. Pleased to see that the man was still targeting him, he simply said :

'Contact all ships. Tell them to be prepared to repel boarders. And tell the _Oblivion's Keeper _... you know what to tell them.'

* * *

_I hear the whisper of the daemon in my blood. I stand at the center of a circle traced in blood, the scent of which makes my thirst grows. Those of the Coven watch over me, feeling the power I possess and afraid I will use it against them. There are right to be scared : Heker'Arn wants me to kill them. But Arken is here, too. His presence forces the beast down – it is scared of him, of what he can do to it with the knowledge he possess._

_There are several more circles – seven more of them. A total of eight circles have been drawn, and me and the daemon can feel the approval of the Blood God at such an auspicious number. Each circle is occupied by warriors of the Forsaken Sons, half a hundred for every arcane device._

_In a moment, the Sorcerers will begin the ritual. They will tear open the Empyrean, and forge a way through reality and madness to our destinations : the vessels of those who dare to oppose our lord. Each of the groups of warriors has been given specific battle-orders by Arken as to how capture the ship, and a small token of sorcery to use if they need to be dragged back to the _Hand of Ruin_. I know that most of them wouldn't use it, preferring death to the shame of failure, but Arken has been clear : he wants his warriors to come back, if only so that he can punish them himself should they have been truly incompetent. He has warned that he will ask the Coven to capture and torture the souls of any who would choose death over facing him._

_I haven't received a token, for my nature makes it simple for the Sorcerers to home their magicks on my position – simple, but not easy, as I am also resistant to their tricks. My mission is simple, for the ship I will be sent to is one that has been condemned to death : find the commander of the ship – and of the entire fleet – kill him and all the command crew, then call for the Coven to pull back me and the rest of my assault group so that the _Hand of Ruin _can tear apart the ship freely. At least, that is the plan. Even one such as I knows that no plan ever survive contact with the enemy._

_My finger-claws itch with the desire to plunge them into flesh, but I contain it, for now. There is no enemy here … Or is there ?_

_With me in the one circle I occupy are those I once called brothers, warriors of the Twelfth Legion. Now I have no more brothers, and the daemon has shown me my Legion's fate – broken, scattered across the stars by the most unthinkable betrayal. _

_I am tainted, twisted, a parody of what I once was. So are they. They admire me for my strength, for the power I wield. They are wrong. I am damned. And so are they. But at least they don't know it. They know so little these days. How to fight – that they will never forget. That Arken is their lord – that I wonder when they will forget. That the Imperium is their enemy – that … I think some have already forgotten._

_That they are sons of Angron. That, they wish they could forget._

_The presence of the other Astartes irritates me. It makes me want to kill them. I see some of them wearing the purple and gold of the Third Legion, and it makes the daemon screams in anger and disgust. I share both of these emotions, did even before we became one. The Emperor's Children are pathetic, they always were, but now … Now they are monstrous even by the standards of what we have become. Strong, yes, but they waste their might on the pursuit of petty satisfactions and pleasures, ignoring the higher call, the call for blood ..._

_Ah … here it is again. _

_I no longer feel the Butcher's Nails in my head. The daemon has removed the pain. Now, it and I thirst. We thirst for blood, for the sensation of splitting skulls and rending flesh. It has been too long since we last fought, and the thirst has grown. It is painful … but it is not like the Nails. It isn't driving me insane. I am in control. That is the worst part, I think : regardless of what I do to slake the thirst, it is _I _that do it. Not the Nails. Not the rage. Not the daemon. I._

_My name is Hektor. I cling to that name. It is all that prevent despair from overcoming me, and if that happens then the daemon will take me wholly. I am Hektor. I am Hektor. I am …_

_**You are my host. You are my brother. You are the Blood God's servant.**_

… _Yes. I am that as well._

* * *

To many, a battle in space is a thing of beauty. To others, it is the business of cowards lacking the guts to face their foes on a blood-soaked battlefield, a weapon in their hand. Regardless of these biased points of view, one thing remains undeniably true : space battle is _huge_. The ships trading volleys are often tens of thousand of kilometers away from each other, and even with the speed and maneuverability that Mankind's greatest minds conferred to the vessels, aiming and placing is a matter of cold calculus and anticipation. Reflexes and quick thinking are useless when shots can take up to an hour to cross the determined course of their target. It was, in many ways, war at its most civilized, most clean and most totally unforgiving. One shot reaching its target means hundreds of lives lost, not just in the impact but as the cold of the void penetrates the hull of the victim. A single mistake from one of the thousands of crew involved could have catastrophic consequences. It was for a reason that the Imperial Navy only recruited the best of the best – except for the poor souls that dwelled in the ships' depths, and were sentenced to carry on repeating but necessary tasks for the engines to keep working.

At the battle for Parecxis, the Imperial ships had the advantages of a combined superior firepower, efficient crew, and an ability to work together honed by all the battles they had fought under Admiral Von Libestat.

The enemy had Astartes. Never before had they faced _that_, but they knew what the Legionaries were capable of, having seen them in action during the bygone days of the Great Crusade. And what the mortals commanding the loyalist ships knew was enough to make them doubt that victory was even possible. Space Marines were the ultimate boarding forces, their natural talent for spearheading an assault magnified in the confines of a ship. Analysis of the enemy ship's design revealed it had been made from the earlier model of the Adeptus Astartes' mighty battle-barges that composed the core of the Legions' fleets, but bigger, capable of hosting thousands of surhuman warriors. Oswald doubted that it was full – after all, every Legion, traitor or loyalist, had sustained terrible losses during the Heresy. Some more than the rest, it was true. Oswald's heart still bled whenever he thought of the fate of the noble Salamanders, Iron Hands and Raven Guards. These had been arguably the most humane of the Legions … and now, weak as they were, they would be unable to weight on the future of the Imperium. Dark times were ahead, that was for certain.

'All ships, be prepared to repel boarders,' he repeated his order. He trusted the other crews, but he needed to make sure they had received the message. 'Even if we haven't detected any boarding craft being launched, it doesn't mean that there isn't any we failed to see.'

* * *

The _Hand of Ruin _advanced fearlessly toward the Imperial fleet, its weapons ready to fire the moment it reached their maximum range. On the deck of the Astartes vessel, Shipmaster Koldak was smiling. He _loved _void war. He had seen many battles during his service to the Sixteenth Legion, and he had come to seek the perfect battle, the one where every participant would play his part flawlessly so that only pure, unaltered strategy would determinate the victor. The Siege of Terra had been a wonder of tactical prowess, until the impossible to understand decision of the Warmaster to lower the _Vengeful Spirit's_ shields and allow the False Emperor to teleport aboard. Now, facing a fleet that had so clearly fought many battles together, Koldak reveled in the opportunity to test his mettle against such worthy opponents. Oh, sure the battle would actually be concluded by the Astartes about to be sent to the enemy ships by the Coven's unknowable sorcery, but until the warriors finished their tasks, it would be up to Koldak and his crew to keep the _Hand of Ruin _intact and close enough to all ships for the Coven to be able to pull back the boarders if the ship they were on was deemed lost. Such a challenge was unprecedented in all of his career, and in fact, possibly in all the history of space navigation. It made his blood boil with anticipation. The enemy commander – Admiral Von Libestat, if he remembered correctly – had sounded like a courageous man in his talk with the Awakened One – although a foolish one. No one could stand against lord Arken. He had dragged the entire ship through Hell, captured and enslaved a lord of the daemons, and unleashed a power beyond the imagining of mortals across an entire sector. Who could challenge such a being ? He reminded Koldak of the Warmaster – after all, he too had united Astartes from different Legions toward one purpose. And that loyalist had dared to insult him … he would soon understand his error, of that Koldak was certain. Too bad it would probably means his death. The Blood Champion, as he had come to be called in frightened whispers, was not a subtle weapon, if a powerful one.

'How long until we reach the teleporting range ?' he asked, already knowing the answer – but it never hurt to confirm his own estimations with the arguably more precise cogitators of the ship.

'Five minutes and twenty-six seconds, sir,' answered one of the officers. Hmm. A hundred and fifteen seconds sooner than he had anticipated. Good.

The deck of the _Hand of Ruin _had changed more than a bit since its change of allegiance, and even more so since the Exodus. They had been reached by warp-born a total of three times during their run through the Empyrean, and the damage the daemons had done had just be repaired. The tech-priests had incorporated some of the new designs thought by Merchurion, and the result had been a lot more of bio-technology being used, combined with some downright creepy things like mutated servitors and organic screens. But it worked, and that was all that mattered, whether it was powered by the blessings of the Omnissiah or the wonders of the Dark Gods.

'Any word from the estimed Awakened One ?'

'None, sir.'

Perfect. That meant Lord Arken had finished his briefings of the assault groups and was ready to see them off to battle without any delay. Koldak was still a bit doubtful about the new method of boarding they would use – it seemed to him that the Coven's craft was too much alike the horrors they had faced during the Exodus. But if Lord Arken thought it best … Still, unlike most of his crew, the Shipmaster wasn't quite a devout of the True Pantheon. He knew the gods the Word Bearers spoke of were real, of course – he wasn't a fool. And he also admitted that, in their circumstances, they had to take help wherever it came from. And yet, it was true that some of the changes the Ruinous Powers had wrought were … unnerving. The Blood Champion was terrifying, of course, but the warriors who had once been battle-brothers of the Emperor's Children were the ones who truly disturbed him.

He knew that some of their members aboard the _Hand of Ruin _were about to be sent to the Imperial ships. In spite of himself, he felt a tingle of pity for those who were about to face them.

Ah … foolishness. He had to banish such thoughts, and focus on the incoming battle. Failure from his part would mean that the _Hand of Ruin _would take more damage that was absolutely unavoidable, and it could also mean the needless death of valuable Astartes. He didn't know how the Awakened One would balance the lives of Space Marines and damage to the ship, and he would rather not discover it. Lord Arken had been a comprehensive and reasonable commander so far, unlike many he had heard about in the rest of the Legions – apparently, those who had cast off the yoke of the False Emperor had a tendency to be more … liberal with the lives of the mortals under their command – but it was safer not to push the limits of his tolerance.

'Thirty seconds to teleport,' announced one of the servitors, transmitting the message from the chamber where Lord Arken couldn't communicate by vox without risk of perturbing the ritual.

'Well, ladies and gentlemen,' said Koldak to his crew with a wild grin, 'this is it. Let's give them hell until the Astartes finish their part of the job, shall we ?'

His words were received with a mix of cheer and salute, and the crew focused on their duties once more, ready to fight yet another battle in a war that would never end, against a foe just as dedicated to their task as they were. _This _was why he had sided with the Warmaster when the time had come for every human in the galaxy to pick a choice. The Emperor had forsaken the men who had fought and died to conquer the stars in His name, leaving what they had built in the hands of weaklings and bureaucrats that squandered the sacrifices that had been made. How could men and women who had never even seen a battlefield lead Mankind ? The galaxy was filled with xenos who only wished to do it harm, and other horrors lurked amidst the stars that they couldn't even begin to imagine. The Warmaster had seen that, and he had even managed to forge an alliance with the greatest of these horrors : the Dark Gods of Chaos. He may have failed at the ultimate moment, but Koldak knew that Horus Lupercal had been in the right when he had called all those who were loyal to him to rebellion against the Throne.

Those who stood against them were blind to that truth. They thought the False Emperor was protecting them – but how, when He had abandoned the Great Crusade ? When He had conspired to leave Mankind alone so that He could focus on planning His ascension to godhood ?

And now some of these fools even worshipped Him ! That was beyond his understanding. The False Emperor wasn't a god ! There were true gods in the galaxy, and yet they would cling to a false idol rather than embrace them ?

Foolishness. And for that foolishness, they would die. Well, the lucky ones anyway.

* * *

The sensation of having one's very being torn apart by the mighty energies of the Warp, decided Tacitus, was a definitely new experience, and thus one that had to be savored. The sounds he was sure he had heard during the transition had been truly marvelous – the symphony of the Empyrean, singing with the pleas of the damned and the dirge of the lost. Nevertheless, even for a devoted of the Dark Prince such as him, being teleported across thousands of kilometers by means that had not been tested still _hurt_.

Looking around him with eyes which could never be closed, thanks to the eyelids having been removed by the scalpels of the Third Legion's Apothecaries, Tacitus saw the rest of the assault group materialize as well. Other members of the Emperor's Children appeared. All of them were wielding the sonic-blasters they had fabricated from the bones and sinew of men and women sacrificed to the Lord of Pleasure and weapons that had once been bolters now transformed beyond the imagination of most humans. Two packs of Tacitus' brothers took part in the boarding – eighteen warriors of the only Legion who had reached perfection in the Dark Prince's embrace. Of all of them, only Tacitus didn't carry one of the sonic-blasters. His own approach to battle, and passion, was different – and, he firmly believed, superior.

The other part of the assault group, three packs of former Word Bearers, emerged as well. To Tacitus surprise and delight, one of the crude, boring warrior-monks was unfortunate enough to appear in the middle of a steel wall, his body cut apart as it manifested. The blood of the Legionary erupted in a geyser that covered the armor of his brothers, combining with the crimson color of their heraldry in a way Tacitus found exquisite. He could smell the rich, coppery scent of Astartes' blood, and wanted to taste it on his tongue. He could feel the same impulse in the rest of his pack, their minds feeling a pick of anticipated pleasure at the simple thought. But he held back, and they followed his example. Turning on their allies so soon in their mission would be foolish. It could lead to failure, and failure would end into death. And while Tacitus and his brothers didn't fear death – it was, after all, the ultimate experience – they would rather only meet it after enjoying the galaxy's worth of sensations all they could. So, still suppressing the wonderful impulse, Tacitus greeted his allies.

'Brothers ! It seems the Coven succeeded in the task our lord assigned it … though not without cost.'

Tacitus' vocal cords had been modified too, in a way such as to make the pitch of his voice shift randomly, sending pulses of sensations into his brain and that of his brethren with each unexpected change. It seemed the Word Bearers didn't enjoy such a refined pleasure, though, for they looked back at him all at once, safe for the one who was retrieving the dead warrior's gene-seed. The former Emperor's Children could feel the contempt in their gaze.

'Get silent, freak,' growled back one of the warriors in crimson ceramite. 'We have a mission to complete.'

For a moment, the desire to plunge his blade – a magnificent weapon crafted from the bones of Legionaries fallen on Istvan V and metal plundered from their tanks – into the fanatic's head to punish him for his insult was almost impossible to suppress, but Tacitus simply nodded, and turned to lead his brothers toward their objective. The Awakened One had assigned different targets to the two groups – probably in order to avoid precisely what had almost happened. Tacitus would have admired Arken's insight if it hadn't deprived him of the chance to kill one of the Word Bearers by 'accident'.

They ran through the corridors of the ship, empty of all life. The fleet they were engaging had taken heavy losses in the war, that much was obvious, and the crew that remained was doubtlessly concentrated to the areas of utmost necessity. It was the same procedure that had been applied on the _Hand of Ruin_.

This ship, however, was … different. Tacitus couldn't tell what exactly, but there was a fundamental difference between this ship – the _Oblivion's Keeper_ , if he remembered correctly – and the _Hand of Ruin_. Was it something as simple as the fact that this one had never turned side ? Did the loyalty of those aboard, misguided and foolish as it was, have the power to cause such an … unsettling air ?

No, it was something else. Something deeper, more primal. This ship was simply … _plain_. It lacked the marvellous taint that had infected the _Hand of Ruin _during the Exodus, the palpable sense of power and corruption that had penetrated the vessel. It was, in a word, boring. And nothing was more anathema to a devotee of the Dark Prince that boredom.

When the ship was theirs, Tacitus decided, they would have to change that. Perhaps he could ask the Awakened One to give them some of the people of this system's worlds to be used as the material for the ship's redecorating ? The Emperor's Children had made such wonders of the people of Terra, who knew what they could achieve with more time that they had had there …

But that would have to wait. For now, there was killing to enjoy. His group was directed toward the engineering while the sons of Lorgar were to take control of the command deck. There was a lot more personnel working on the engines, and no doubt the Awakened One would understand if some of them were to be killed in the confusion of the assault, despite their potential value if they could be turned.

* * *

'Machine-spirit, once more we call upon Your blessing. Please, grant us speed, so that we may face the enemies of Man. Please, grant us strength, that we may destroy them. Please, grant us resilience, that we may endure in Your service.'

The prayer was older than Leximus – indeed, older than his entire flesh-line. It came from the first techno-masters from Holy Mars itself, when they had embraced the truth of the Machine-God after the horrors of the Dark Age of Technology. It was effective, though : the engines of the _Oblivion's Keeper _roared in answer to the tech-priest's supplication, the cough that had been impairing them forgotten.

The engines of the ship were massive, surrounding a power generator that used the Litanies of Plasma Fusion's secrets to feed the titanic machineries all the way to the propulsors on the ship's exterior. Orders were transmitted from the command deck, received and put into the engines under the form of pulses of binary code. Complex maneuvers were translated in combinations of more power to some parts of the ship and less to others by the cogitators implanted within the servitors dedicated to the task. Leximus and the other tech-priests listened to the commands with distract ears, their processors filtrating them so that they could anticipate which parts of the engines were going to need maintenance next.

'Warning : intrusion detected,' warned one of the servitors in its monotonous voice. 'Warning : time esteemed before intruders break through defenses : … three point zero zero four sec …'

The servitor was interrupted by an explosion, and a splinter of metal cut it in two, spilling its fluids, blackened blood and oil alike, all around its station. Leximus and his brethren turned to face whatever had dared to intrude in their sanctuary, the weapons that were as much part of them as the other, more conventional implants, raised in preparation. There had been no guards on the door's other side – because anything that could pierce the three-meters deep obstacle would have been more than capable of dealing with them.

The tech-priests, however, had prepared for battle for years, testing their most recent innovations in the many battles that had occurred aboard the ship during the Horus Heresy. Leximus had led them in the process, indeed, he had been the first to suggest that they modify their own bodies, even though they didn't have permission from Mars to elevate themselves into the holy order of the Mechanicus. The Omnissiah, he had argued, would forgive such a minor violation of His creed if it was to better fight His enemies. He had been heard, and the seventeen tech-priests remaining in the engine room were each true killing machines, looking more like skitarii than engineers, but still able to fulfill their original duties.

In the end, it had been decided that they would have to defend themselves, and the human soldiers used to defend more critical sections of the ship. It had been a temporary measure, to be ended as soon as they could get reinforcements from the rest of the system, but the transports that had been supposed to bring the new crewmembers aboard were still on the orbital docks. They would have to wait until the battle was over, obviously.

The assailants poured through the broken door – and Leximus distractedly noted that the defense had been destroyed by the use of melta bombs and … something which he couldn't identify. Then the tech-priest saw what exactly the enemies were, and he felt something he took several milliseconds to identify : disgust.

The creatures had the size of Astartes, and seemed to wear the colors of the traitorous Third Legion – though some of them had covered the shoulder symbol of their allegiance in black paint for reasons Leximus didn't even want to fathom – but all resemblance ended here. These were _not _Space Marines, though they had obviously been at some point.

Their armor was covered in glyphs that offended Leximus' very core, as if they were against everything he had ever believed in. Most of the warriors went unhelmed, and their faces …

By the Omnissiah's holy name, Leximus had seen some horrors during the Heresy, but this … If anything, the fact that the changes had obviously been voluntary made them all the more unbearable to look at.

The flesh of the things was distorted, the skin stretched and kept in place by crude sutures and needles. Some had had their ears removed, all had their eyes fixed open through various means, and despite Leximus' removal from the flesh, he could still see that they were all insane. Their mouths were forced open by metallic structures built into their jaws, and endless screams rose from their throat. His sensors detected a potent smell of chemicals of unidentifiable provenance running through the intruders' bloodstream, most of them which would have been enough to kill a mortal man on their own – and there were _dozens _of them. Even the Astartes' superior resilience had to be fighting a hard battle to keep the Emperor's Children functionning, and it somehow offended Leximus. To see the extent of the Omnissiah's genius, only for it to be so crudely debased … it struck him as _wrong_. It was _heretical_. _Blasphemous._

The weapons carried by the creatures were just as bizarre. Most of them carried things that looked like musical instruments, but as if they had been crafted by a lunatic having only access to an abattoir for his materials. It was only when they turned it toward one of the few combat servitors the tech-priests still had that Leximus even accepted the things could do any damage beyond their ugly appearance.

The mechanised minion was crushed to pulp by soundwaves that made even Leximus' augmented hearing organs screech with feedback. Some part of him still refused to accept that the strange devices could have any effect, but in front of evidence, he shut them down for the moment. He felt that his brethren were facing the same dilemma, and shared his decision with them in a binary pulse, convincing them to wait until they had dealt with the intruders before attending to this technological aberration.

The renegades charged them, and the tech-priests opened fire as one. The first salvo took three of the eighteen assailants down, and the rest scattered, seeking cover behind the wonders of the Omnissiah. Immediately, Leximus and his colleagues went down the elevated position they had been occupying and started moving, their cogitators tracing the best patterns through the labyrinth of machines to reach their foes before their foul presence could desacrate this place any further. Not the most optimal move tactical-wise, but there were things even the relatively open-minded tech-priests aboard the _Oblivion's Keeper _weren't willing to forsake in the name of efficiency. Besides, there were other command panels across the room, and if one of the heretics were to be possessed of some skill, there was no telling the damage he could cause to the ship.

Leximus himself rushed toward one of these panels, where his sensors indicated that an heretic would soon reach. He had to protect the ship, and if that meant fighting an Astartes, however corrupted, alone, then so be it.

Just as he had predicted, the second he entered the section of the room, the warrior in desecrated armor entered it from the opposite side.

Unlike its brothers, the thing carried only a contact weapon – at least, that was what Leximus estimated it was. It looked like a chainsword, but it wasn't following any of the templates of the weapon that Leximus knew.

It was … strangely beautiful, in fact. The handle was finely crafted in the whitest bone, the teeth on the blade caught the dancing light of the electric bulbs quite beautifully, and …

Something withing Leximus _screamed_, and he tore his attention away from the blade, feeling as if his inner circuits had been attacked by a malign program – which was, he realized, the sensation the unblessed referred to as _nausea_. Now that whatever forbidden technology had enabled it had failed, the glamour that had surrounded the sword was gone, and it looked exactly as it was : a monstrosity, crafted from an unholy combination of bones and metal. There was also something more to it, something he couldn't identify yet knew, somehow, was what the crew of the ship called 'witchcraft'. Unscientific, perhaps … but the word fit, and 'phenomena Warp-related capable of circumventing the laws of physics' was a little too long, even for the Adeptus Mechanicum.

The warrior in purple and gold launched himself toward Leximus, and the tech-priest opened fire. His auto-cannon pierced the armor of the Astartes in several points, sending goblets of tainted blood all around, yet the warrior didn't drop dead as Leximus' calculus had told him he should have. Instead, he continued to charge, and before Leximus' puzzled mind could react, he had already reached him and begun to slash his sword to cut him apart.

With reflexes that were just as augmented as the rest of his person, the tech-priest jumped out of harm's way, but failed to dodge the attack completely. And when dealing with Astartes, even a glancing blow is enough to cripple.

The blade rammed through his chest, severing six vital cables and destroying five augmentic organs at the same time that Leximus fired again. This time, it was enough.

As the corrupted Marine fell down, Leximus' inner vox picked up a transmission from the command deck of the ship. It was garbled with interference and the poor state of his own systems, but the message was still clear enough :

'_This is … command deck lost … initiate … destruct procedure … The Emperor protects.'_

So. It had come to this, in the end. They had fought as hard as they could, but the ship was lost. Better to destroy it that to let it fall into the hands of the traitors. With the Omnissiah's grace, perhaps the rest of the fleet had fared better than them.

Blood and oil dripping from his many wounds, Leximus forced his broken body to crawl toward the control panel. All it would take would be one single signal, and the reaction of the plasma reactor would cascade until the _Oblivion's Keeper _vanished into a burst of fire like the birth of a small star. In other ships, such a thing was normally made impossible by protections and safeties, but these had been long removed on the _Keeper_, as the crew had long known that a time could come in their service to the Imperium when death would be the better outcome.

Leximus forced himself up, clinging to the console, and raised his hand, the one at the end of the only arm he had left. It was made of flesh, not yet replaced by an augmentic. It seemed strange, heretical even, and yet appropriate to him, that flesh would have endured when the metal in him had failed to the traitor's onslaught.

Warnings flashed before his eyes as his systems neared absolute shutdown. Pain, that he thought he had long left behind, forced its way to his awareness. Blackness began to overcome him, but still he moved his hand …

Then something pierced him from behind, and the pain finally overwhelmed him. His hand hung over the one button that would send the _Oblivion's Keeper _into nothingness, but he couldn't lower it.

Looking down, he saw that he had been pierced with the blasphemous weapon that the traitor had wielded. He realized that he could hear the heavy, difficult breathing of the heretic behind him.

With the cold certainty of absolute knowledge, Leximus knew that he was dead, and that he had failed in his ultimate duty. But that was impossible. How could the Emperor's Children's warrior have endured such degree of corporal damage ? Leximus knew about the Astartes' surhuman resilience, but this went even beyond such things ! And the warrior was still going to die ! What could possibly push him to do such a thing when his body laid torn and destroyed, his blood almost entirely spilled ?

'Why ?' asked the tech-priest, his vox-speaker barely managing to spat the words. 'Why do you go this far ?' Emotion, that he thought he had been released from so long ago, crept into his voice, despite the fact that the speakers weren't supposed to be able to express it. ' What keeps you going, traitor ?! _What do you want ?!_'

Just before the life-signal of the Astartes shut down completely in Leximus' sensors, immediately followed by the tech-priest's own blip, Leximus heard the answer, a whispered word that sent shivers down to his very soul :

_'More.'_

* * *

'The _Oblivion's Keeper _is under our control, Awakened One,' said Koldak through the vox. 'We have just received reports from the packs aboard that they have secured both objectives.'

'Casualties ?' came the reply. Lord Arken was still in the room where the Coven had cast their spells, waiting for his warriors' return while directing the rest of the battle by vox.

'Several, but I have no exact number at the moment. The former Word Bearers report three killed and two wounded, only one of them heavily, and those of the Third Legion …' Koldak hesitated.' ... Well, their reports are less than perfectly clear.'

'I see,' answered Lord Arken. 'Don't let them know you said that, though. They take perfection a little too seriously, even though I cannot understand why, considering what they have become. Something to do with the philosophy of the Prince of Excess, apparently, but that is something you and I both would do well to stay away from.'

'Of course, my Lord.'

'What is the statut of the other groups ?'

Koldak quickly brought up the data demanded by his Lord. The other ships were still fighting – the Blood Champion especially was encountering difficulties, if Koldak's interpretations of the screams transmitted by the creature's packs was reliable. But in the end, all would either submit, or die. The _Hand of Ruin _was simply too powerful, its crew too experienced, to let them destroy it before the boarders could do their job.

Of course, as with all forms of war, it could still go wrong. If the boarders failed, then the battle would become protracted, and things could turn against the traitor ship, but there was nothing Koldak could do about it apart from listening to the reports from the packs teleported onto the enemy fleet, and pray the True Pantheon for victory.

'The ships are still resisting. It appears they have more troops aboard that the _Oblivion's Keeper _did.'

'And how is the _Hand of Ruin _?'

'We are fine, sir. Our shields are holding what we cannot dodge, and we are still within teleporting range of the seven remaining enemy vessels. Is there any problem on your side of things ?'

'No. Keep up the good work, captain. We will need these ships to be ours soon.'

Koldak hesitated for a moment, then, seeing as the battle didn't need his intervention for another few seconds, asked the question he had been meaning to ask ever since they had emerged into the Parecxis system :

'Sir, if may ask, how do you plan to use these ships ? The Warp Storm is still raging, and even our own Navigators have difficulty driving _one _ship through it. The few we captured at Mulor still aren't trained to sail the currents of the Sea of Souls according to their methods. Even if we take them, how could we bring them through the Warp ?'

'Come on, Koldak. You of all people should know that battleships are useful for more than mere travel.'

* * *

AN :

So, how did you like that ?

This is the first chapter of an entire arc. The Parecxis system is not going to be conquered as easily as Mulor. Expect several chapters filled with more action that usual coming - the next one, as usual, in a week or two, and I think I am really going to stick to these announcements now instead of trying to rush things.

Writing the Emperor's Children, to be honest, is difficult. They are monsters in a way sane people can try to understand, and I had to read the _Angel Exterminatus _for inspiration. And while it is a very good book, it is still something that can give nightmares.

While I have your attention, I would like to tell you about something I found while surfing on the Web for ideas : the Dornian Heresy. It is, in my opinion, one of the ultimate exemples of fanfiction. It tells the story of an alternate universe where, basically, traitor and loyalist are inversed, with Rogal Dorn cast as the Arch-Traitor instead of Horus. It is _very _well made, with backgrounds for a lot of Legions and even its own goddamn codex in PDF available. Unfortunately, it isn't completed, as several Legions are lacking a description and the author hasn't been heard of in years.

It made me want to try my hands at something (very) similar : the Roboutian Heresy. While the pitch shouldn't be hard to guess, it wouldn't be a mere copy of the Dornian Heresy, but something entirely new except for the idea of inverting loyalists and traitors. If you are interested, tell me so in your reviews ( though could I post something like that on that site ? I am not sure. I mean, it wouldn't be a story, more something of 'One AU Legion described by chapter, following the model of the Index Astartes').

And with this, I tell you all goodbye. I will see you again (I hope) for the next chapter of the Forsaken Sons' dark deeds.

EDIT : corriged the _Hand of Ruin's _shipmaster name that I had mispelled.


	9. Chapter 9 : A Deception of Faith

And here comes another chapter. Took me a bit of time to get it written, but I am quite satisfied with how it came out.

There may have been some confusion with the other chapters today : I edited them and re-edited them, because I couldn't make sure of the name of the _Hand of Ruin_'s shipmaster. In case it wasn't clear to anyone and so that I have somewhere to look if I am confused again in the future, he is called Koldak.

As always, I would like to thank those who have taken the time to review my story since the last time :

lightning king : thank you. I have a lot more planned, but there are a lot of things that need to be worked on more before I can put them in the fic.

Teefplucka : glad to see someone else recognised it. Also, there is something funny I have noticed : in all the AU I have found where traitors and loyalists are reversed, the Ultramarines are _never _submitted to Chaos. They are just independent of the Imperium. How are fans supposed to be credible when they criticize GW's preference for the sons of Guilliman when we are doing the same ?!

anyd : apparently, Jikaerus is the character that my readers like the most (according to the reviews, anyway). I think it's because there is so little known about the Alpha Legion, or perhaps I did a better work with him than I thought. As for the Ultramarine Heresy, more on that in my AN at the end of the chapter.

So, with this done, here comes the chapter !

I do not own the Warhammer 40000 universe or any of its characters. They belong to Games Workshop.

* * *

The bridge of the _Maleficence's Reward_ was filled with the sounds of battle. Reports and orders were shout, weapons were brought to bear toward their singular target by remotely controlled servitors, and a thousand more tasks were taking place simultaneously as the crew of the loyalist ship did what they did best. It was a symphony of organised chaos, a perfection born of gruesome practice in the most unforgiving conditions. Yet one sound was unusual, though not entirely unknown.

More and more screams came from the vox-channels opened with the troops sent to deal with the boarders. Hundred of men, trained by the institutions established by Roboute Guilliman's Legion when they had liberated the system, that had been ready to join the Great Crusade when it had fallen apart. They had fought in the Heresy, risking their lives to put down the cults that had risen from the madness of the civil war – though Parecxis had been largely untouched by the conflict, even this system had felt the waves of such destruction. They were brave men, loyal to the Throne of Terra even as the galaxy they had been trained to fight in had collapsed around them.

And now, they were dying in troves, slaughtered like animals by the monsters that walked his ship, and there was nothing Oswald could do to save them. The only thing the admiral could do was made their sacrifice worth it by bringing down the vessel that had carrried the invaders, and it didn't seem he was going to accomplish even that.

His hands tightened around his command chair, Oswald Von Libestat watched as the traitor ship dodged yet another volley. Whoever the enemy's commander was, the bastard was a damned genius at space war. And still, Oswald couldn't make sense of the moves his enemy made. The Astartes vessel was taking absurd risks. According to the conclusions of the cogitators, the only logical explanation was that it needed to stay within a certain range of all the Imperial ships at the same time. It didn't make sense, but then again, neither did the sudden teleportation of teams of boarders across the entirety of Oswald's ships. The _Oblivion's Keeper _was already lost, its self-destruction foiled, and had started to run away from the fighting proper. Doubtlessly, those now in command of the ship didn't want to risk their prize being destroyed while they couldn't even operate it properly.

Still, all wasn't lost. They could still win this – and even if they couldn't, they could make sure the rest of the sector was safe. If they could take down that one ship, then the traitors would be stranded in the Parecxis system. Billions would still be at the mercy of the traitors who would manage to escape the ship's destruction and those who had taken one of the loyalist ships, but there would be no Navigator to allow them to bring their evil to the rest of the galaxy.

_But do they even need a Navigator at all ? _Wondered Oswald. He had seen too many things that didn't make sense in the civil war to believe that anything, no matter how unlikely his knowledge told him, was impossible. And bringing a ship here in the first place was supposed to be impossible. Even now, the Admiral could see the tempest that had isolated the entirety of the Trebedius sector from the rest of the galaxy : where the space between stars had once been black and empty, it now surged with colors that didn't exist and the movements of beings that shouldn't exist. How in the name of Terra had the traitors even crossed the infernal storm ? What had Mathus said, that the storm …

The Admiral's blood ran cold. Mathus. Oh, sweet merciful Emperor. In the confusion, he had completely forgotten about the astropath. When he had even ordered all troops to converge on the boarders, he hadn't had the time to wait for all of them to report.

For one terrible moment, Oswald hesitated. What to do ? Ask for a report ? Were the guards of the astropath's room even still alive ? Were they engaged in battle against the invaders after having dealt with Mathus' situation, and his call was about to distract them and sentence them to death ?

Were they already dead, and a daemon roaming the ship at this moment ? What he could make of the soldiers' confused shouts and screams seemed to indicate that the boarders already had one with them. Could this situation get any worse ?

'Admiral,' shouted one of the deck officers. 'We have just lost contact with the _Liberation's Price_.'

For a fraction of second, Oswald Von Libestat thought he could hear something laughing at him in the distance. Then he swore violently, and began to adjust his strategy to the loss of another ship.

* * *

_I am covered in blood, but it doesn't last. My armor-skin dries in a matter of seconds, the coppery fluid drained by the unholy life that beats within the ceramite's confines. This is how the thirst is slaked, how the parchment of my throat can be fought and defeated for a time. I drink blood from my armor-skin, and it sates whatever it is that has replaced my mortal appetites._

_The mortals before me are weak. Determined, that much I can give them, but weak. It reminds me of when the daemon and I first became one. Their flesh burst under even the slightest of my blows, the chainaxe I still carry bites through their fragile skin and feeds off their lives. I can feel the weapon's own sentience, awakened by too much bloodletting. It is a vicious and cruel thing, every bit as bloodthirsty as the daemon in me._

_**The weapon isn't as we are. The crude spirit that the deceived fools of the Red World placed within it is merely being influenced by my presence in you, brother.**_

_The daemon's voice is a mix of emotions it shouldn't be allowed to feel. While Herek'Arn is reveling in the bloodshed, I also hear a tingle of annoyance in its tone, hidden behind the growls and echoes of screams that make up its voice in my head. It doesn't enjoy me comparing my weapon's own hunger to the one we share._

_My former brothers are fighting all around me, their souls consumed by the Blood God's touch. I can see it so clearly now, how they have changed. The Butcher's Nails are so much more that simple copies of Angron's own archeotech implants. They are His tools, His instruments. Despite the Blood God's despise of treachery and subterfuge, it appears He isn't above some manipulation of His own if the result is an entire Legion dedicated to Him, willingly or not._

_**You and your kindred should be grateful to the great and mighty Khorne. He has given you purpose, clarity, and more than all, He has given you strength.**_

_Strength ? These things mark their skulls as belonging to this abomination of hatred and rage that you call master ! We are slaves ! All of us ! It is all we have ever been, and now, it is __**all we shall ever be !**_

_My voice and the daemon's become one once more as the rage I feel aligns itself with Heker'Arn's natural state, and I jump at the terrified mortals that still stand before me. They are aligned, blocking one of the ship's corridors, their weapons primed and aimed directly at me. Though me and my brethren have killed hundred of them, there are still many of them left – and the thirty or so that now block my path may still hurt me, if they aim carefully or get a lucky shot. I am not, despite Heker'Arn's boasts, invincible. In battle, I feel pain. I bleed, my own blood drunk by my armor-skin just as easily as the soldiers'. And as Angron told us all : anything that bleeds can be killed. Perhaps I will die here, too._

_I doubt it, though. Mere humans can hardly hope to ever truly harm me, let alone kill me. Heker'Arn's power heals my wounds too quickly, makes me too strong for them to defeat me. And as long as the blood flows, as long as I stand victorious, even if I take a thousand wounds, I shall not die. I know this._

_**Yes, for it is the truth. The Blood God will not let you die, brother. Not until you fail Him. Then, and only then, will your skull be added to His throne.**_

… _Yes. In the meantime, let us kill, for the Awakened One, for the Forsaken Sons, for the life that was taken from me …_

_**All of these causes are but illusions, my brother. You and I know why it is we fight. We fight for the one true purpose in this realm of matter : to spill blood in Khorne's glorious name !**_

* * *

Sergeant Dillon was terrified, yet none of the men under his command appeared to be able to see it. They were cowering in one of the less used corridors of the _Maleficence's Reward_, their guns pointed toward where it was most probable the danger would come from, but they didn't contest his orders, and appeared to be doing well themselves on the front of keeping their own fear under control.

That level of discipline was inspiring, even to a veteran like Dillon. That he himself was holding the pieces of his sanity together didn't surprise him, because not showing that you were afraid was the base of command, and even in such a desperate situation, his training didn't let him down, keeping his face a mask of resolution and confidence thanks to instincts that had been hammered in his subconscious by hundred of battles.

Emperor. Hundreds. Had he really served that long ? He knew he was an old man – sixty standard years if the chronos aboard ships were to be trusted. Not too aged to serve by the Imperium's standards, even though his rank didn't allow him access to rejuvenation treatments – not that they had them now – but he still felt that he was too old to deal with something like this. Then again, there probably wasn't anyone in the entire galaxy that could deal with something like this.

The day had started as normally as any other had since the Warmaster had gone mad and brought civil war to the Imperium, burning the dream of Mankind in the flames of his insane ambition. Dillon had woken up, forced the youngsters under his command to get up as well, and, once ready, they had gone to replace another squad as guards of the astropath's chamber. Not the best job there was aboard the _Maleficence's Reward_, but one that needed to be done, and could only be entrusted to those of the two thousand soldiers on the ship whose training had covered the possibility of a warp-messenger losing himself to the Warp. That meant none of the Guardsmen they had brought up from the worlds in the system were qualified. And now, Dillon felt that he wasn't qualified either.

They had received the Admiral's order just before every alarm on the ship had went on at the same time – forming what the crew had nicknamed the 'Frak it, they are here' signal. The alarms had stopped a moment later, and, at that sign that the rest of the crew were doing all that was possible to take care of whatever had happened, Dillon and his squad – twenty men armed with standard lasguns, unlike he who carried a bolter as symbol of his rank – back to the astropath's chamber.

Kurt had been the first to die. Brave, stupid Kurt. Always ready to take point, even if there was no telling what kind of danger awaited them. The lad had once told Dillon, after one too many drinks, that he did it because he was too scared of letting another die if he could have been in his place.

If it hadn't been as horrible, perhaps he would have been satisfied with the way he finally met his end. But regardless of his sacrifice's value, being cut in two by the tentacle of some abomination spawned by the Warp wasn't a good way to die.

Despite the fact that the creature had killed nine of his men in as many seconds, the sergeant hadn't seen much before he had called for a retreat – or perhaps he had seen it, but his mind was unable to accept what he had seen and refused to remember it. When the Warp was involved, it was hard to tell.

He _did _remember, however, that the thing had been big, and its shape inconsistent. He remembered flesh rippling like water, muscles and limbs rearranging themselves as if clay under the hands of some invisible, insane sculptor. The only thing that had indicated that the thing had once been poor Mathus had been the icon of the Adeptus Astra Telepathica, once tattooed upon the astropath's flesh and that had somehow remained untouched upon the skin of the beast.

Dillon had seen astropaths lost to the Warp before. Before the civil war, they had generally been shot before they had become dangerous. After that, when the Warp had gone even madder than it had always been, there had been several instances where he had been tasked with taking down the gibbering lunatics that could make normal men see, hear and feel things that weren't here. When the Admiral had told him to act, he had thought he knew what to expect.

And now nine of his men were dead, and the thing responsible was drawing near. He could feel it, not with any of his five senses, but he still could. He wasn't a psyker, but there was no need of that to be able to detect the sheer _wrongness _of the abomination.

'Steady, lads,' he said, his voice carried over by the comms in the ears of the men. 'Don't look ahead, focus on your weapon. When that beast is here, open fire on my signal. You won't be able to miss it in this corridor. If we can all get a shot at that thing, we should be able to take it down.'

Wishful thinking, doubtlessly, but it was all they had left at that point. And convincing them that he had a plan was a big help for them; it would ensure they didn't break and run the moment the thing appeared.

There was a hissing sound, and the smell of ozone filled the recycled air of the corridor. A moment later, the creature that had emerged from astropath Mathus appeared.

To their credit, none of the Navy soldiers ran. They held their ground, firing wildly at the warp-born abomination with their weapons at full power. Sergeant Dillon used his bolt-gun on the automatic setting, unloading an entire magazine of the precious ammunition into the corrupted flesh before his weapon clicked empty. Even then, when the monster lurched over him, having already slain his comrades, he held his ground, using the gun as a lump of metal to hit the creature, over and over. Even after a newly formed tentacle that ended with a blade of bone pierced through his chest, lifting him in the air, he continued hitting in vain. Tears running on his cheeks, blood coming from his wound and his mouth, the old man kept fighting. He knew he was going to die. He accepted that fact, as he had accepted it from the moment he had learned that the galaxy burned with the flames of betrayal. There could be no peace in such a galaxy, and a soldier could only ever find a violent death in it.

But, by the Emperor's name, he would _go down fighting_.

A mouth formed on the mass of flesh, filled with teeth that reminded Dillon's delirious psyche of that of the great predators that roamed his homeworld's oceans. The last thing to cross his mind before the horrific orifice closed on him was sadness at the thought he would never see the waters of Medisors again. Then, there was a flash of pain, and all became dark.

But it wasn't the end. His pain continued, growing ever stronger. The very soul of the mortal was ripped apart as the warp-borns that had possessed the astropath consumed it, feeding upon Dillon's emotions and memories. Unspeakable torment ran through each portion of his essence, more and more parts of himself falling either to gibbering madness or burning out in agony.

It took Sergeant Patricius Dillon two hundred thirty-seven seconds before the last part of his soul vanished from existence entirely. Each of these seconds was worth the pain of an entire century in the care of the Dark Eldars' best haemonculi.

* * *

_The last of the men dies as one of my pack-members beheads him in a single strike. The scent of blood surrounds us, bathing the armors of my brethren. Mine is clean – and already I feel the thirst returning. I thought it may be sated by the dozens of men I had killed this day, but it was a forlorn hope. Nothing can sate this thirst, for it is that of the Khorne. Each battle is merely a temporary respite from it, a false peace bought by the lives of all those I kill. _

_I should have known that. I have been sent to other battles by the Awakened One since me and Heker'Arn became one, crushing pockets of resistance in the Mulor system and slaughtering those of the humans aboard the _Hand of Ruin _who dared to try to revolt. Every time, the thirst merely recoiled for a moment as my armor drank the ichor spilled upon it. But I had thought that this – a true battle, against an enemy that actually resists me – would be different. It isn't. Like drinking salty water, it only makes me thirst for more in the end._

_**They were too weak to be a true battle, brother. Only in pure battle may the thirst be truly sated for a while.**_

_But what kind of enemy is there in this galaxy that may be able to challenge us ? Alexandre died by our hands, yet his blood didn't satisfy the Skullfather ! What more can we offer to the Blood God ?_

**_Everything._**

_I try not to think about the daemon's words, to force my mind not to notice the eagerness in its tone, hidden beneath the screaming. To take my focus elsewhere, I look outside instead of inside, and watch my brethren. Ten are still standing – we have lost two since we arrived on this ship. They are not dead – simply gone, wandering away from our group in pursuit of prey. The rest are being kept near me by the power I wield – the remnants of instinct, hypno-indoctrination and habit born of a thousand battlefields making them follow whoever is the strongest warrior. Even now, covered in gore, they still hunger for more, the Butcher's Nails punishing them for stopping the killing, even though there is no more enemies to slay._

_They are different now, their armor finally repaired and adapted to their grunted desires by the servants of Merchurion. The tech-priests have refashioned broken helms and breastplates to better reflect the true nature of those who wear them. Images of skull and blades are engraved upon the ceramite in bronze, and while the emblem of the Legion, a jaw enclosing a world, is gone from almost all of them, a new emblem has been branded on most of their breastplates, in imitation of the one that has formed on mine._

_The skull-rune, the emblem of Khorne. They wear it as a mark of honor, of devotion, of power. _

_I see it for what it is : the brand of slavery. And if I don't act soon, they will start killing each other in the name of our dark master. They have began to understand, in their warped and tormented minds, what it is that has made us what we now are. They know, on some instinctive level, the power of the Warp that has enforced our transformation. But all that knowledge is useless when the Nails start to sing._

_I start walking, and they follow, abandoning the corpses of their victims to join the leader of their pack. Our target is the command bridge. The Sorcerers didn't teleport us directly in it – in truth, it is a miracle we ended up into the ship at all. The shields are still raised, making standard teleportation impossible. But little we use these days can be called standard anymore._

_Fortunately, this ship is built on a classic pattern, one that even the sons of Angron are capable of navigating through with ease. Finding our way is easy, even with the Butcher's Nails biting in the brains of my brethren. World Eaters have always been expert at boarding actions, after all – we never enjoyed watching our opponents burn in space, we need to see them die with the weapon that killed them in our hand. That has always been our way, even when we were still called the War Hounds, so long ago._

_I can see the soul of our target, the one commanding the ship and the rest of the fleet. Heker'Arn's senses and mine are one, and through the Immaterium, the soul of Admiral Van Libestat burns like a sun, hurting if I look at it for too long. It shines with duty, honor, loyalty …_

… _Faith ? The Awakened One mentioned that the human commander was one of these fools who believe in the False Emperor's divinity, but can it be that his misguided belief is what grant his soul such radiance ?_

_**He can believe in the Anathema all he wants. Every prayer, every offerring, every sacrifice, it only makes the Empyrean stronger. They can feed Him their faith and belief, and turn Him into a God if that is what they want ! He will be a Carrion Lord, endlessly trapped in agony, unable to die and unable to live. An eternity of torture, a fitting punishment for the one who dared to challenge the glory of Chaos !**_

_I do not understand the meaning of Heker'Arn's rambling, and I do not care. Whenever it starts talking about the False Emperor, its words stop making any sense that I can perceive. Perhaps the former members of the Seventeenth Legion could, but I have no desire to associate with such fanatics, as hypocritical as that may be._

_**The Archpriest of the Primordial Truth and his sons have been blessed with the understanding of the Gods' true purpose, their eyes opened to the secrets hidden beyond reality. They understand this : only by sacrifice to the Ruinous Powers can Mankind endure, and the only sacrifice that matter is blood ! We will …**_

_Heker'Arn suddenly stops, and I know at once why. Something is coming. Something that isn't mortal, something dangerous. Something that is … familiar ?_

_I hear the wailing of tormented souls, and it takes me a few seconds to realise that it isn't Heker'Arn usual sounding. This is real, this is in the plane of flesh. Then the source of the noise appears, emerging from a turn in the corridors of the ship, and for a second I wonder if I have gone even more insane that I should be._

_I have seen a lot of things in my existence. I have walked the soil of Terra as the skies of the Throneworld burned with war, and waged war against a thousand different foes during the Great Crusade. I share my body with a being of the Empyrean, and my soul belongs to a god that cares only for the spilling of blood._

_Yet this … I cannot move. For a fraction of second, I am frozen still where I stand. Not because I am afraid – fear was thrice removed from me, first when I became an Astartes, then when the Nails were put into my skull, and finally when Heker'Arn and I became one. But because I just cannot accept the reality of the thing before me._

_**Servant of the Great Mutator ! Spawn of the Prince of Lies ! Agent of the Changer of Ways ! In the name of great Khorne, kill it ! Kill it now !**_

_As Heker'Arn shouts its hatred in my head and through the Warp, I feel its knowledge of the beast before me penetrating my own mind. It is a creature of Tzeentch, one of the Dark Gods. I remember the Thousand Sons shouting that name at Terra while casting their sorceries at the walls of the Imperial Palace. It is a power rival to the one that owns me and my former Legion, one that thrives in deceits and sorceries, one that knows nothing of honor and battle._

_Nine hundred ninety-nine daemons are placed within that beast, bound together by the design of some greater entity of the Courts of Change. The result is a writhing mass of flesh, constantly mutating. With the senses granted to me by the daemon, I can see the hundred of beings from the beyond that have found their way within it, each of them trying to reshape it to its desire. It is like watching armies fighting for a city, rebuilding it only for it to be torn down once another claims it. Faces appear and vanish on its skin, tumors form and dissolve in the blink of an eye, mouths open in screams before being shut forever as the flesh closes on them like a fast healing scar._

_A tentacle covered in chitinous armor spurts towards me, and the trance is broken. I catch the appendage with my left hand, and swing my chainaxe with my right. The screeching blade tears apart the pale, bloated flesh, spilling black ichor. The taste of it on my armor-skin is foul and rotten, and Heker'Arn screams in anger and outrage. I feel the sparks of warp-energies within the tainted blood being consumed by my armor-skin, the tiny daemons wiped out of existence as their power is used to fuel my strength. I pull with my left arm, dragging the thing closer so that I can finish it. But it is stronger than I expected, and resist my pull. _

_Another limb strikes me in the side, and I am …_

_Am I actually sent flying ?! Just how strong is that abomination ?!_

_I crash through one of the walls, dragging my opponent with me. Physics say that such a thing shouldn't be possible – but both me and the warp-spawn aren't their subject. We roll on each other, exchanging blows that are either deflected by my armor or absorbed by the sheer mass of the thing._

_Our battle goes on, and we move through the ship, smashing through walls as if they were wood, our surhuman frames breaking ceilings and floors. _

_My rage and Heker'Arn's rise together, until the point when I can no longer distinct between the daemon's own impulses and my own. We are both consumed by an anger that has nothing to do with pain-engines, and for the first time since I and the daemon were bound to each other by the blood of Mulor Prime's people, I lose myself to the Red Veil …_

_**Blood for the Blood God ! Skulls for the Skull Throne !**_

* * *

Three ships had been lost to the enemy. Two more were already destroyed, their Warp engines overwhelmed by ritual self-destruct commands when the boarders had proved they were too strong to be repelled. Whatever the final issue of the battle this day, Oswald knew that the Imperium would not emerge victorious.

He still had three ships under his command – the _Maleficence's Reward_, the _Pride of Sol _and the _Herald of Vindication_ – but he doubted now that they could take down the enemy vessel. The _Hand of Ruin _was simply too fast, too well-armed and shielded. It _had _taken damage in the course of the confrontation, of course – several batteries had been crippled, a few clean hits had passed through their shields in the seconds it took them to reload – but Oswald couldn't help but think that every blow they had inflicted had been allowed to land after careful calculation of the pros and cons of such a course of action.

In the end, the one advantage that the traitors had – the Astartes – had proved too much for him to overcome. Oswald had lost the battle, and if the traitor ship had chosen to destroy them, it could do so at any moment now. Its superior firepower was enough to take on the three remaining ships on its own.

The Admiral was considering telling the _Pride _and the _Herald _to retreat as he launched the _Maleficence's Reward _into a ramming attack on the renegades. The boarders were getting closer and closer to the bridge, though their advance had slowed since the unholy monstrosity that had been leading them so far had mysteriously vanished. The ship's sensors couldn't track its presence – in fact, they couldn't track anything since the moment the boarders had first appeared. There had been a flash that had told them the entry point of the enemy, then the augurs had died. The only way to detect them had been to wait for the reports of destruction that came from the machines in the sectors they crossed, and it wasn't nearly as effective than what they were used to.

Perhaps they could still crash against the Astartes ship before the boarders reached them. It was a long shot, but at that point, it was all they could hope to accomplish. The _Herald_'s crew had managed to repel the boarders that had assaulted them – reports from the ship said that once they had managed to kill half of them by dropping pieces of the engines waiting for repairs on them, the rest had just vanished back into the Warp. The _Pride _was still in the same situation as the _Reward _itself, but perhaps they would manage to do the same. In any case, if a ship was to sacrifice itself to take down the invader, then it would be Oswald's.

Then, as he was going to give the order, his communication unit lit up with an incoming transmission. Looking at the identification rune of the sender, Oswald Van Libestat felt his blood run cold. He clicked on the rune, and listened to the one-way transmission :

_'This is Sergeant Dillon … I am currently engaging the leader of the assailants on the sixty-sixth deck … You must expel the compartment into space, sir ! We won't be able to hold it for long !'_

Dillon ?! How … No. It didn't matter, or rather, he didn't have the time to investigate. The Admiral brought up the data about the sixty-sixth deck, and yes, there was a succession of damage reports from the machine-spirits of the engines located in this section.

A quick analysis showed him that if he did void the compartment into space, the shields of the ship around that section would drop momentarily. It would only last two to three minutes, a mere blink in a void war, but it would be enough of an opening for the _Hand of Ruin _to seize it and inflict considerable damage if its commander so wished. While the traitor ship had so far minimized the damage to the other ships, it had proved that it had no such reserves concerning the _Maleficence's Reward_. Doubtlessly the enemy commander, that traitor he had talked with before the battle had started, wanted him dead. The _Hand of Ruin _would take the shot, even if it meant sacrificing the Astartes they had sent on board. But ...

Looking one last time at the data of the battle, Oswald Van Libestat took his decision. Only six seconds had passed since the desperate transmission from sergeant Dillon.

* * *

_I roar as I rip my enemy in half with my clawed hands. I have lost my chainaxe in the battle, I do not remember when or how. But this should be enough – my foe must be dead. The essence of the life that was used as both beacon and gateway for the warp-borns that animate the spawn is destroyed, and without it, the construct of matter and soul should crumble apart. That knowledge comes from Heker'Arn, but I do not care at that moment. For, right now, the thirst has stopped._

_The foul blood of the beast covers me, its taste horrible enough to make one such as I feel nauseous, and yet I haven't felt as free as I have since the Nails were first hammered in my skull by the Legion's Apothecaries. Heker'Arn is screaming in triumph, reveling our victory over an agent of another of the Octed._

_And then, cold, and pain._

_My balance is still unsteady from the many wounds I have taken that haven't healed yet, and a gust of air takes me up. Icicles form on my armor-skin as the temperature drops alarmingly. The few systems of my armor that still work shout out warnings in my helmet – low temperature, loss of atmosphere, depressurization … _

_Did those in command of the ship just void the entire compartment into space ?!_

_I try to climb to something, but it is too late. It has already been a few seconds, yet the ship is already too far away, moving at what is slow speed for spacecraft, but is still several hundred kilometers per minute. _

_I see the remnants of my foe floating in the void near me, and suddenly, I understand :_

_I have been tricked. I thought I had won, but the spawn led me to the outside parts of the ship, and somehow managed to make the crew empty it into the void !_

_**Deceit ! Treachery ! Cowardice ! We shall hunt down the ones responsible, and offer their skulls to the Blood God !**_

_I roar my anger at being deprived of my victory, and when I realize that I have failed in my mission, I only screams louder. My screams are carried over the Empyrean, echoing into the souls of those mortals that dared to do such a thing to me. Do they think I will die ? Even a normal Astartes can survive void exposure for a short while !_

_And I am no normal Astartes. I will survive this, and I _will _have my revenge ! _

_**We will destroy them all, and track and punish those of the Changer that dared to help the Anathema's slaves !**_

_I trash around in the void, unable to control my anger. Then, suddenly, I feel the Empyrean stirring. Something is happening. Through the veil of my rage, it takes me a few seconds to recognize it : it is the same spell that was used on me and my brethren to send us aboard the loyalist ship. I am being drawn back …_

_There is a flash of pain as I cross the Immaterium, and I am in front of the Awakened One. Despite the utter calmness of his expression, I can sense the anger dwelling beneath. It makes my own fury rise in response, despite the fact that I now stand before my lord, having failed in the task he has assigned me. _

_'Hector Heker'Arn', he says in his cold, dead voice, the true name of the daemon withing me causing it to shiver. The Sorcerers near him flinch at the name being spoken so casually. To master a daemon takes more than simply knowing some assemblage of syllables – one must understand that daemon's very nature, and Heker'Arn is a powerful daemon of the Blood God. Merely listening to its name causes pain to these wielders of sorcery. I feel my anger rising again at the sight of them, until Arken speaks again. His words are colder than ice, and they make the daemon whimper with the barely contained threat they are holding. How in the name of Angron is he doing that ? Ah, of course. True naming. Remembering a warp-born that you literally hold its essence in your hands is a good way to intimidate even a creature made of pure rage, hatred and bloodlust, apparently._

_'You will be quiet _now_. You have failed me, but that failure was still within the possibilities I had anticipated. This battle will still end in our victory, but for it to be complet I need to be able to deal with the situation now, which means I don't have the time to take care of you right away. You will stay here. You will not move. Then I will come back, and we will talk.'_

_He turns his back on me, and leaves the room. The members of the Coven follow him, and the rest of the Astartes go after them. Besides my brethren, I recognise those who have been sent on another ship. Like me, their armor is hissing with vapor in the aftermath of teleportation. They have just been brought back, and since I can no longer feel the tension of sorcery in the air, they were the last. _

_I try to move, but I cannot. My flesh is as unmoving as stone. I feel panic rising, then I hear Heker'Arn's voice. It is filled with grudging respect and carefully hidden dread – but we are one, and it cannot hide anything from me._

_**We are bound, until he delivers us. Your lord has grown even stronger, brother.**_

* * *

On the deck of the _Hand of Ruin_, one of Koldak's aides shouted at him with a note of incredulity in his voice :

'The shields of the _Maleficence's Reward _just went down, sir ! They have voided one of their compartments !'

'What ?! Why in the name of Horus would they … of course.'

The crew of the loyalist flagship had to have taken this desperate measure in a last ditch attempt to kill the former World Eaters that had been sent to board them. The captain of the Astartes ship opened a vox-channel to the Awakened One. The lord of the Forsaken Sons answered at once :

'I know why you are calling, Koldak. The Coven have already dragged these fools back here. Take the shot, now ! Reduce these fools' ship into dust !'

Koldak gave the order, and a volley was sent toward the vulnerable spot in the enemy ship's defences. Spears of light pierced the void, the energy of several suns focused on the tiny point thousands of kilometers away. In the shipmaster's estimation, it would not be enough to destroy the ship – the point was simply too far away from any sensible parts. But it would cripple them, and they would be able to finish them easily. The Awakened One had demanded the death of this particular ship, and while its crew would be spared death at the hands of the Blood Champion and his followers, they would still die, their souls at the mercy of the denizens of the Warp.

* * *

The impact was tremendous, shaking the entire ship. Alarms rose on the command deck, quickly shut down. The tech-priests would have to work on their own, to ensure that the last gambit of the _Maleficence's Reward_'s captain succeeded. The engines of the ship burned, propelling it toward the Astartes traitor vessel with full speed. To the outside eye, it may have looked like a ramming run, but it was clear that the loyalist ship would miss its target, as the _Hand of Ruin _was far maniable enough to dodge such a last ditch attempt – if the _Maleficence's Reward_ could even reach it before being destroyed by enemy fire.

A transmission arrived from the _Pride of Sol_. Oswald opened the channel while the rest of his crew prepared to execute the last maneuver he had ordered.

'Admiral Oswald, your ship is too damaged for a ramming run. They will destroy you before you can reach them. The _Pride of Sol _will execute your plan. You and the _Herald _need to retreat !'

'Don't give me orders, Captain ! I am still commander of this fleet !'

'You _must _survive, Admiral. The people of Parecxis will need you in the war to come ! They will need space support when they fight the battles on the ground !'

'Indeed they will. But the _Maleficence's Reward _will not escape this battle, captain. We are too wounded for flight. You will give them the help they need. And what I have in mind is _not _a ramming run. Now, go ! We will cover your retreat.'

'But …'

'This is my final order. _Pride of Sol _and _Herald of Vindication_, retreat to the system's edge and prepare to support the war for the Parecxisian worlds ! The Emperor protects !'

The Admiral shut the vox-channel, and looked around him. All the crewmembers were watching him, and he felt pride swell in his chest when he saw that though they were scared, none of them were going to contest his decision. They were going to die, of that there was no question. But in death they would harm the enemies of the Emperor, and that, Oswald realized, was all that a faithful could ever ask for.

'Admiral,' said one of them. Its insignia marked him as a low-ranked weaponry officer, but Marcus had been gunmaster of the _Maleficence's Reward _for two years now, though they hadn't had the means to replace his uniform. 'We will be in range of the enemy ship in fifteen seconds.'

'Very well. Overload the Warp Core.'

'It has been an honor to sail with you, Admiral.'

'No, lad. The honor is mine.'

* * *

'By the Octed,' whispered Koldak in shock as he finally realized what the loyalists were planning. 'They are insane !'

Detonating the Warp Core that allowed the ship to sail the Empyrean was not something that was even supposed to be possible. It had been done before, of course – as a last recourse to take down as many opponents with you as you could, or, he had heard, as a way to signal one's position when you were stranded in space without a Navigator. But there were reasons that such a thing was considered too insanely dangerous for even the Warmaster, who, blessed be his name, had still been a ruthless if genial individual.

A Warp Core was … dangerous. Even when the ship wasn't in transit, it had to be shielded by Geller Fields to prevent breaches from the Sea of Souls. Detonating it could collapse the border between the Warp and reality, and _that _could cause such damage that the giant explosion it also caused was generally not even taken in consideration.

But of course, that was under normal circumstances, and Koldak cursed himself that he hadn't thought of it sooner. It appeared that the one in command of the loyalist fleet wasn't as much of a conventional tactician as he had thought.

They _weren't _in real-space right now. They were in a Warp Storm. He had absolutely no idea of what would happen when the Warp Core detonated, but he knew one thing for certain : it had a very high chance of killing them all.

'All batteries, open fire ! Destroy that ship before it gets too close ! Engines at full power, get us as far away from it as you can ! Raise the Geller Field, and tell the Navigators to prepare to take command of the ship in case whatever happens plunge us fully into the Warp ! And someone shut off this proximity alarm !'

'The other two ships are escaping,' signaled one of the officers.

'Let them go !' snapped the shipmaster before adding, as an afterthought : 'and tell the ships we captured to get as far away as they can, too !'

'We are being hailed by the enemy ship, sir !'

' … What ? … Open the channel.'

The only thing passing through the channel before it was closed was an audio transmission :

_'Traitors, this is the end. You will die, and those of your kind that have taken refuge aboard the ships they have stolen will be unable to do further harm to the Imperium. In the name of the Emperor, die !'_

'All hands, brace for impact !'

* * *

And with this, another chapter ends. Yes, I know, this is a cliffhanger. But come on, it's not as if what happens next isn't obvious.

As always, I thank you all for reading this. If you like it, please review ! If you see things that can be improved, tell me ! I always need more feedback.

About this chapter ... I have not much to say. It is part of the arc 'The Parecxis system campaign', a part of the fic that will last a lot of chapters, I think. I had originally planned for Dillon to go down heroically by influencing the Chaos Spawn from within before realizing that such a thing wasn't in accordance with the Grimdark of the WH40K universe. So, instead, I made the whole 'voiding part of the ship' part of a Tzeentchian plot. The consequences of that will be felt in the future, but I cannot talk about it now.

Concerning the Roboutian Heresy project, it is steadily growing. My notes about it now cover most of the Legions that will go traitor - only the basic traits and ideas, of course. Once I know what I want for each of the eighteen Legions, I will write the story of the actual Heresy, which will be the first chapter of the fic in question if I post it. The other chapters would then be description of the Legions, one by chapter, in order of number (first the Dark Angels, last the Alpha Legion). If you have ideas for this project, especially concerning the allegiances and backstory of the new Traitor Legions, contact me now, before I post the first chapter, because changing things will be pretty much impossible later.


	10. Chapter 10 : The Depths of Darkness

And here comes another chapter. Hope I didn't keep you waiting too long, but I was reading the newly published novel of the Horus Heresy, _The Damnation of Pythos_. Good book, though those who have read _Pandorax _already know how it ends._  
_

Before the story begins, here are a few points I would like to rise :

Firstly, the rating of this story. Until now, I have rated it at T, but the amount of violence within (eh, it _is _a story about psychopaths worshipping gods that are literally made of hate) makes me wonder if I should give it a M rating instead. Please give me your advice about this, because I just can't decide.

Secondly, I have used the neutral pronoun 'it' to refer to space ships. But it occurs to me ( a bit late, I admit) that ships are normally classified as feminine beings in English. Should I keep using the neutral pronoun as I have done until now, or change it to the correct way ? As before, I await your advice.

With this taken out of the way, there are, as usual, a few people whose reviews I want to answer :

Khorne : Mercy, oh Great One ! It was either that, or let the mad demon rampage on the _Hand of Ruin _!

garmon z evil : thank for your praise. The reason they put the Oracle where it is now (for reminders, inside a prisoner Ultramarine psyker) instead of inside a weapon is simple : Arken doesn't trust a daemon any further than he can throw it. Having to deal with Serexithar when he is in its chamber is difficult enough, but having a Daemon Prince of Tzeentch inside your weapon (is that even possible ?) would be suicide. For the psykers, they are too valuable for Arken to have deployed them until now, but their turn will come soon and I will think about your suggestion then. As for Fabius Bile ... well, to be honest, while he _is _a fascinating character, the only way I see of introducing him into that series would be first to wait a bit, as he is still in the Eye of Terror (and, as I have said before, I would rather stick to canon) and then to make it so that SPOILER ALERT it is one of the clones that he uses, to make sure I can kill him if needed END SPOILERS. So ... I will need to think about it.

The Fezatron & High Chance of Rain : thank you very much. I hope you like this new chapter as well.

I do not own the Warhammer 40000 universe or any of its official characters. They belong to Games Workshop.

And now, let us return to the grim darkness of the thirty-first millenium, where there is only war, pain, and the rotting corpse of hope ! Joy !

* * *

They weren't dead.

That, thought Merchurion, was good. He had given them a 17,16487% chance of being vaporised by the explosion, which wouldn't have done at all. He had too many experiments going on to allow himself the setback of being reduced to cosmic dust.

Reports flooded his inner cogitators, sent to him by the servants he had left in charge of the _Hand of Ruin_'s engines while he attended to more important duties. The last gambit of the Imperials had failed to destroy them, but the explosion had still inflicted quite considerable damage.

The dying blast of the _Maleficence's Reward _had torn large portions of the _Hand of Ruin_'s hull apart, exposing the softer parts beneath the armor. The Geller Field of these portions had been lost, and something that had bitterly reminded all aboard of the Exodus had occurred. Daemons had stalked the ship once more, wild and uncontrolled, inflicting terrible damage upon the confines of the vessel. Entire cargo bays filled with mortal cultists and zealots that had been trained in the weeks of the journey from the Mulor system had been lost to the warp-born. Several Astartes had been wounded in the battle for retaking them, and if the severity of their wounds was any indicator, the fight had been fiercest than it should have been considering that all Marines of the Forsaken Sons had extensive experience in fighting off daemon breaches. In addition, they had only managed to capture three of the eight enemy ships, had lost more than three dozens Astartes in the boarding, with still more in critical condition, and to top it all, two ships had escaped.

Needless to say, the Awakened One was not pleased with this outcome. While it wasn't a defeat, it certainly wasn't a victory. They had met the bare requirements of success that the next part of the campaign would require, yes, but the damage done to the _Hand of Ruin _hadn't been in the Astartes lord's calculations.

If Merchurion had been involved in the whole thing, he would probably have been uncertain of his probability of imminent survival. In hindsight, it was indeed fortunate that the teleportarium that he had rebuilt according to the revelations of the Eightfold Omnissiah hadn't been used for the operation. According to the Awakened One, it lacked the flexibility required for the multiple teleportations aboard the enemy ships, and Merchurion had been forced to admit that his invention was indeed lacking compared to the psychic powers of the Coven. It hadn't been a pleasant thing to accept, but facing one's shortcomings was an indispensable part of the way to mechanical perfection.

Consequently, he had spent the entire time since the _Hand of Ruini_'s emergence from the Immaterium proper into the more conventional space that engulfed the Parecxis system here, caring for the experiments that, if they succeeded, would propel the warband of the Forsaken Sons to new heights of power.

He wasn't the only one doing so, of course. All of the Fleshmasters, as the Apothecaries amidst the Legionaries that the Awakened One had rescued from the disaster at Terra had come to calling themselves, were here as well.

What had once been the medical bay of the _Hand of Ruin_, a place dedicated to healing,had changed much since they had fled from Terra. Firstly, it was now much bigger, several walls collapsed to allow its extension. Secondly, where the Apothecarion had been uniquely used to heal warriors before sending them back to battle – or, at worse, recovering gene-seed from those with wounds that made extraction impossible on the battlefield – this was now a place of science and discovery, of unveiling of secrets and of creation of wonders. All around him laid the products of the combined minds of the Fleshmasters, most of them kept contained in sarcophagus filled with warm liquid and being fed all manners of nutrients by intravenous injections. A few medical beds were still intact, and wounded warriors from the failed assaults on the loyalist ships were being cared for by the Fleshmasters – it wouldn't do, after all, if they died before the Awakened One could decide the punishment for their failure. However, the former Apothecaries had taken upon themselves to inflict a measure of chastisement : they weren't using any analgesic to ease the pain as they worked on knitting the flesh back together. Things had become a lot less … _restrained _by protocol, weakness of spirit and ignorance on what was now known as the Hall of Asclepios – a name proposed by one of the former Iron Warriors as some kind of blasphemous joke against the beliefs of his dead homeworld.

Of course, the medical bay wasn't the only thing that had changed. All of those who now called the ship … if not _home –_ such foolish emotional attachments were not for those who had the fortitude of will required to see the lies of the False Emperor and cast away the yoke of His tyranny – then at least a place to stay, and prepare for the continuation of the war, had done so.

Merchurion's own changes had been especially extensive. While outwardly, he had remained the same, his inner systems had been very heavily modified. The new, wonderful secrets that he and the Fleshmasters had shared and discovered had become part of his very body. The blood he now used as lubricant also enhanced the capabilities of his inner cogitators, and the sigils engraved upon his engines with crystal cutters forged from the ashes of the mortals who had been killed in the Mulor system enabled him to channel the energy of the Empyrean within his own body. New organs of purpose yet unknown had formed within him, growing from the remaining flesh, and his auspex were now able to see through the mere facade of reality and into the realms of possibility that laid beyond.

He had known that the False Emperor had limited their field of research criminally, but hadn't truly understood the scope of the usurping Omnissiah's deceit. There was so much that had been waiting to be discovered just outside of their grasp ! Genetic manipulations on scale previously believed to be impossible, catalysing the raw energies of the Warp into devices forged of flesh, the use of blood to oil mechanisms … The possibilities he had glimpsed after _one _conversation with the Fleshmasters formerly of the Legions were enough to have made him spent several _hours _lost in contemplation of the ramifications.

It had taken a direct command from the once Commander of the Sons of Horus to bring the Apothecaries to share their secrets with Merchurion, and even then the Awakened One had had to promise that the Adept would also share his own … but it had been worth it. In fact, the Apothecaries had proved that they could be a very valuable help to his research. There had been a few … _clashes _at the beginning, when the teachings of the Omnissiah merged with his very core had yet to be suitably adapted to the revelations of the Chaotic Ordering. But after he had purged himself from the last chains of the False Emperor, during their sojourn in the Mulor system, they had quickly started to consider Merchurion a member of their little brotherhood.

A total of thirty-four Apothecaries had survived the Exodus – a higher survival ratio than the rest of the Astartes aboard when the ship had fled Terra that was explained by the fact that they had spent the Exodus patching up warriors that had faced the warp-born instead of going on the 'frontlines' themselves. Not that they hadn't fought : the medical bay had been targeted several times, and on one occasion a wounded psyker of the Sons of Horus had been possessed right as the Apothecaries were preparing to operate him.

Despite the losses they had endured in those events, by the time they had emerged from the Warp, all of the eight Legions that had been loyal to the Warmaster were represented – in some twist of probability or by the will of the Architect of the Machine, Merchurion couldn't say.

Those of the Third knew more about the Astartes' physiology than anyone he could think of safe the False Emperor and His own gene-forgers. They had experienced on their own battle-brothers for years, reshaping their flesh by intensive surgeries and genetic alterations. Most of those had resulted in hideous demise, but the Emperor's Children's constant thirst for new sensations – something that Merchurion couldn't understand, and felt as if it was better that way – and the prisoners they had made during the battles of the rebellion had provided them with a steady supply of subjects, volunteer or not. Though none of those present aboard the _Hand of Ruin _equaled the nearly mythical Fabius Bile, whose legend had spread across the Warmaster's hosts long before the Siege, the three sons of Fulgrim still had much to share, and had been eager to reach new heights of formerly forbidden knowledge.

The six former Iron Warriors knew a lot about augmentics and the inner mechanisms of the Dreadnoughts' sarcophagus. The Fourth Legion had rarely bothered with waiting for a Legionary's body to heal naturally when replacing the damaged part was quicker. With the casualty rates they suffered due to their traditional sites of deployment – tranchee and siege warfare – it made perfect sense from Merchurion's own logical point of view. While most of the other Legions would have looked down on the sons of Perturabo that had joined the craft of mending flesh, their knowledge of the machine had been essential to their arguably most important project. Convincing them to work with some of the most innovative aspects of the Chaotic Ordering had been difficult, and preventing them from attacking the Emperor's Children even more so, though that had been resolved in time just as the rest of the tension between Legions aboard the _Hand of Ruin_. There was an animosity between the Third and the Fourth Legion … no, it wasn't animosity. The Iron Warriors simply despised the sons of Fulgrim with a passion that Merchurion wouldn't have expected from such experts of the Machine. It apparently came from the events of Iydris, the world where the Primarch of the Emperor's Children had left flesh behind entirely to become an pure being of the Empyrean. But once their initial reluctance had been overcome, they had dedicated their quite considerable logical and analytic abilities to the task at hand.

The Night Lords … now that had been quite a conundrum. The two sons of Konrad Curze were a quiet lot, keeping to themselves. The Eighth Legion had not changed much since they had thrown their lot with Horus Lupercal, and Merchurion had expected little from members of a Legion of killers who were taken from the slumps of defunct Nostramo. They knew a lot about the human and Astartes mind, though. While most of the Night Lords induced terror into their enemies with incomprehensible things like skullmarks and predatory aspects incorporated to their armor in combination to their unconventional tactics, the two Apothecaries approached the problem with an _unique_ perspective. Besides, the low quality of the aspirants that the Night Lords had been forced to use to replenish their ranks had forced their Apothecaries to up their skills concerning the implantation of their Primarch's gene-seed. It had been difficult to make the two Nostramans talk, but apparently, the descent of the Night Haunter's homeworld back into anarchy had had far more consequences than what those outside the Eighth Legion had suspected.

Only one former World Eater's Apothecary, called Tenoch, was part of the Fleshmasters, though he had been the only one aboard the _Hand of Ruin _in the first place. His implants were … _fascinating_. Merchurion had heard about the archeotech that had been used on the Primarch of the Twelth Legion, and how they had been replicated for his sons when he had taken control of the Legion forged from his gene-template. They interacted with the brain to force the subject to violence, which they rewarded with pleasure, while suppressing all other emotions through a slow erosion of the mind by the application of constant pain. It wasn't subtle, nor was it delicate, but it had obviously worked. The simplicity of the design was belied by the fact that it was absolutely impossible to remove without killing the host – as Merchurion himself had checked on a son of Angron who had been too heavily wounded to be saved during the battles on Mulor Prime. The Apothecary himself had more experience on 'patchwork healing' than any other, and he had found out ways to use the loot of the Mulor system that had made Merchurion wonder if he wasn't a latent psyker using his power to trick reality into accepting his inventions. That, or he had ork blood, had joked the other Fleshmasters when he couldn't hear them.

Four Death Guards had made their way to the medical bay when the _Hand of Ruin _had started to run. They had nearly been shot at the moment of their arrival – all knew what had become of their Legion – but they had managed to prevent the others from opening fire long enough to make it clear that they weren't contagious. Sigils were engraved upon their armor, coaxing the power of the Warp into containing the pestilence within their hermetically sealed armor. The Fourteenth Legion had little need for Apothecaries since the terrible choice their Primarch had made, but those who had survived the plague had also been those who had spent the most time desperately trying to cure it. Their knowledge of the ways viruses and pathogens could bypass a Legionary's natural resistance was unmatched, for they had gained it by fighting a doomed battle against the one they now called their god : the Lord of Pestilence, one of the Great Powers that presided over the Chaotic Ordering. Master of decay and ruin, the Prince of Corruption had to be appeased so that both the flesh and the machine used in the experiments stayed as pure as possible, and the former Death Guards knew how to appeal to Him.

There was one Thousand Son amongst the Fleshmasters, but his was an honorary position at best. He was much more useful as a member of the Coven, and shared his time between the assembly of Sorcerers and the Hall. Parennefer, as the Astartes was called, had long been dedicated to the efforts of the Legion to stop the flesh-change that had afflicted the sons of Magnus. He had spent an untold amount of time trying to discover its secrets on the Planet of Sorcerers after the Cyclops had brought his remaining warriors to relative safety at the destruction of Prospero. Merchurion suspected that while the psyker may have at first been attempting to find a cure to the flesh-change, his interests had soon shifted into discovering how exactly it was that the Great Mutator modified the flesh of the sons of Magnus. Parennefer had knowledge of the Astartes' physiology that rivaled that of the Emperor's Children, and in some domains even surpassed it. His observations and experiments extended beyond the realm of mere flesh and into the nature of the 'soul', as inferior minds called the reflection of one's existence into the Empyrean. When the mutations had stopped, he had appeared both pleased, intrigued, and, according to Merchurion's anaylsers of transhuman behavior, disappointed.

Of the ten Apothecaries that had been amongst the Sons of Horus that Captain Damarion had gathered on the killing fields of Terra before their escape, only five had survived the Exodus. While the members of the Sixteenth Legion were undoubtedly the greatest of the Space Marines, they also lacked the specialisation that the other Legions had gained during their centuries of existence. Thus, in the image of their Primarch during the war, they had become the unifying factor of the Fleshmasters, bringing their ability to combine and use different tactics to the experiments taking place in the Hall of Asclepios. They had learned the secrets of the other Legions with avidity, and their loss of their Primarch had driven them to find ways to enhance themselves so that they wouldn't fail as he had. They were quite possibly the most reckless of them all, which was no small feat considering what the sons of the Third Legion were willing to do. Their pursuit of power, while laudable in Merchurion's opinion, was a bit too extreme, and they had to be watched to ensure that they didn't take too great risks.

Seven Apothecaries of the Word Bearers had survived the Exodus. The sons of Lorgar had been the ones who had first turned their back on the False Emperor, though they had kept their new allegiance secret for decades, and in that time they had learned much. While most of what they shared was clouded in mysticism and superstition, Merchurion had discovered that the secrets of the Warp they possessed were quite effective. They knew how to appeal to the entities that dwelled within the Empyrean, to bind them to flesh and metal. They had studied the physiology of the warriors of the Gal Vorbak and the effects of the Warp on Legionaries bodies long before Warmaster Horus had been illuminated. They had had more time than any other Legion to look into the infinite ways the powers of the Immaterium may be channeled into the material plane, and that made it well worth their tiring proselytism and obsession with rituals and offerings. Besides, while they didn't possess the psychic abilities required to perform it themselves, they knew the ritual that could transform a warrior of the Legions into one of the terrible Gal Vorbak. None of the Legionaries had volunteered for that transformation so far. And, given that only less than half ever survived, even after all the enhancements brought to the original ritual – which had consisted in tossing a Legionary into the Warp and pray for the best – there was little chance that the Awakened One would allow for the warriors under his command to risk their lives like that. Still, they had planned several experiments that used that concept.

Last of the Legions aboard the _Hand of Ruin_, the former members of the Alpha Legion were as much a mystery as ever. Six of them had presented themselves to the Apothecarion when the first casualties of the Exodus had arrived, ready to help and share what they knew. One of them had died when his patient had suddenly burst apart under the effect of a delayed daemonic spell, but the five remaining had taught much to the rest of the Fleshmasters. The Twentieth Legion had always used unorthodox tactics when waging war, and this was reflected by its Apothecaries. Their surgery could reshape the face of an Astartes until he didn't resemble his former aspect at all, and alter his very body until he could pass for a mortal, though a very tall and muscular one. They also knew how to enhance the omophagea so as to extract more information from the flesh of a fallen foe, and could concoct an elixir from Legionary blood that gave humans the same strength and resilience as one of the Astartes for a short period of time. While the latest technique still required testing to ensure that this wasn't a particularity of Alpharius' bloodline, it could still be a potentially tremendous asset to the Awakened One if they could replicate it without the specialised equipment of their own ships' Apothecarion.

'Honored Adept, a word, if you please.'

Merchurion stopped attending to one of the sarcophagus – one containing a man who, according to the data displayed on the casket's control screen, had once been a soldier on Mulor Prime before succumbing to the Warp's fury, being recovered by the Forsaken Sons, and chosen for testing the effects of scraps of gene-seed when injected into full-grown males – and turned to face the one who had addressed him.

He saw a warrior of the Legiones Astartes clad in green, scaled armor. With his new vision, he could also see that the armor pulsed with unnatural energies that made the former tech-priest want to tear the device apart do study its mechanisms. He knew that the armor sustained its wearer entirely, in a perfect union of flesh, metal, and the power of the Empyrean. Unlike most of the Fleshmasters, he still wore his helmet even in the artificial atmosphere of the ship, perhaps to hide the changes that had come upon his body.

Former Apothecary Jikaerus of the Alpha Legion was one of the most esteemed members of the Fleshmasters, his success on Mulor Secundus having earned him the respect of all. Merchurion had read his notes, brought back from the planet where he had performed what was possibly the greatest eugenic experiment to ever take place in the galaxy – which was no small feat, considering what some of the tyrants of Terra had done during the Age of Strife. To have manipulated evolution to such a degree without causing the extinction of his subjects and _succeeded_ in his original goal with only what little material he had brought with him in his drop-pod was something to be proud of … but the Legionary didn't seem to consider it worth the praise his brethren had lavished upon him. If anything, since his return aboard the ship, he had dedicated even more energy to the experiments of the Fleshmasters, reveling the heated discussions with his colleagues and the debates that opposed them. Merchurion suspected this had to do with the utter solitude the Astartes had endured in his Warp-twisted time on Mulor Secundus.

'Apothecary Jikaerus. What is it ?' asked Merchurion.

'There is something strange with the Steel-Wrought,' answered the Astartes. 'Nothing urgent, but I think you should have a look.'

'Then let us go,' concluded Mercurion. He knew he was a poor conversationnalist, but had never understood the need of the outsiders to the Mechanicus to drape their meaning and intent in more words that was needed. It seemed a waste of time and energy to him, and one of his few beliefs that hadn't changed was that waste had to be avoided at all occasion.

The Techno-Adept and the Fleshmaster crossed the Hall together, walking toward its center, where laid the one experiment upon which Merchurion had spent the most time since the conquest of the Mulor system. Each step, a new wonder of science was exposed to the eye, forming a tapestry of forbidden experiments and blasphemous devices that stretched for hundred of meters. Sarcophagus containing mortals at different states of alteration, glass containers filled with liquid into which floated mutated organs harvested from the wretches of Mulor Secundus, cultures of viruses and living tissues injected with the energies of the Empyrean … all of them either to discover new secrets, or to bring another advantage to the Forsaken Sons in their war against the Imperium.

They passed before men with too many limbs to test the connection of their nerves, skulls with alien eyes in their sockets to check their compatibility with human genome, vat-grown clones in the process of being tested for the next step of their modification. They saw human beings of both sexes being cut open and others being filled with pathogens that were still in their testing phases. They nodded in salute to a Fleshmaster whose armor still bore the sigil of the Emperor's Children and who was trying to clone the gene-seed of the fallen in an attempt to create hybrids of humanity and Astartes. The products of his previous attempt laid on a dissection table before him : a monstrosity whose basic shape was not unlike the ogryns that some regiments of the Imperial Guard used as auxiliaries, but hideously twisted by tumors and exceeding organs that had formed under the influence of the flawed gene-altering retrovirus employed. Merchurion made a note to tell the former Emperor's Children to communicate more with the Fleshmasters of the Twentieth Legion. They could help them on that.

They saw all this and a dozen more visions that would have broken the mind of most mortals, like a gallery full with the flesh and bone sculptures of brilliant but demented artists.

Then they arrived at their destination.

'I must admit,' said Jikaerus while looking at what Merchurion had created with the spoils of Mulor Prime, his voice made even more of a low growl by the vox-grill of his armor, 'that this still amazes me as much as it repulses me.'

Before the two renegades stood a container of reinforced plasti-glass, filled with a greenish liquid with conservative properties. Hundred of cables emanated from the thing, connected to a dozen control panels with screens keeping tacks of thousand of variables at once. Quiet warning sounds emanated from the controllers, signalling for a change in their charge.

'So … ' asked Merchurion, connecting one of his mecha-dendrites to a port in the machines and sending his query through it as well as speaking out loud, 'what is wrong with you, esteemed Lord Governor ?'

* * *

For an eternity, all he had known was agony.

His jailor had cut him up, removing one bit of flesh at a time, connecting him to more and more machines in order to keep him alive. He had lost his left eye first, then his earing, then his sense of taste when it removed his tongue. With his right eye, his bionic eye, he had seen the monster peel off the skin of his skull and crack open the bones of his head, exposing the soft grey matter beneath. His entire digestive system had been the next thing to go, replaced by needles that forced nutrients into his veins. Then he had lost his heart, replaced by a pump. Then his lungs, replaced by filters that purged the carbon dioxide from his bloodstream. Piece by piece, every organ had been removed and another machine introduced to keep hims alive.

After that, the true horror had begun. The daemon-faced abomination had removed his left arm and leg, and he had been reduced to a brain plugged into machines that kept him alive despite his burning desire for death. For he had come to realize that, contrary to what he had believed when he had woken up, he _wasn't _dead. He was alive … for a twisted, tortured, _evil _definition of 'alive'.

Nerves that should have ended in the parts of his body he no longer had were instead connected to wires that went out of his cage of glass. Sometimes, the wires would send electrical pulses along his nerves, tricking his brain into feeling things that weren't here with limbs that were gone.

All that remained of him was his right arm and leg, that were locked in place by restraints of adamantium. He had spent untold hours trying to break free, to shatter the boundaries of his prison so that he may finally die, but to no avail. He knew that his metallic limbs didn't possess the strength required to shatter their bounds, but he couldn't help but try anyway. The pain was simply too strong, he _had _to do something, _anything_ to escape, even if that was in vain.

The heretic had tried to cut apart his mechanical side, but he hadn't succeeded. The limbs were strong where his flesh was weak. Almost half of his body was made of it, and though the monster had profaned the work of his captive's saviors with his experiments, breaking them open and filling them with analytic devices, they still refused to yield their secrets. That gave the prisoner strength. He struggled to emulate the fortitude of the iron that now made all of his true body, to not give in to the insanity that lurked at the borders of his consciousness. He had held on as the traitor ripped him open, resisting the forces bent on _breaking _him with a stubbornness that he had not known he possessed.

Then the cables grafted to his mind had started transmitting other things than pain. Sensations from his left hand. Images seen only with his left eye that had been replaced with a series of wires in an empty socket. Pleasure, felt with all of his body. And even emotions, forced upon his tortured mind by the probes planted in his the exposed half of his brain. Joy, sorrow, anguish, anger, yearning, ecstasy … he had felt myriad of emotions at the press of a button. But always, he had clung to the one emotion that he knew was truly is. He had forgotten much through this endless hell. Entire parts of his life had vanished from his memory as his nerves were burned by electrical currents, and his every waking moment between nightmarish deliriums was filled with yet another torture, but that one thing remained his.

Hatred. Pure, unaltered hatred. No matter what he was forced to feel, no matter how much of his body his monstrous jailor took from him, that emotion was _always _present. It gave him strength, and direction. It gave him purpose.

And now, for the first time since the daemon-faced beast had taken his tongue, Lord Governor Valens Tarsis could give it voice. The tremor that had shaken the entire ship had moved _something _within the complex gears of his metallic side, unlocked something hidden within the mechanisms the Iron Hands had grafted upon his dying form so long ago.

* * *

A never-ending shriek came from the apparel's speakers, tearing at Jikaerus' ears like the sonic weapons of the Emperor's Children. It didn't sound like anything that could have come out of a human mouth, merely a storm of static and parasites, yet the raw hatred it carried was unmistakable. The former Apothecary didn't understand how he knew it, but the truth of it was obvious nonetheless. This was the scream of hatred and impotent rage of a tortured soul at his tormentors, promising unspeakable agonies should it ever escape its bounds.

And Merchurion was directly connected to the source of this hatred. The Techno-Adept jerked as if he had just been hit by a Terminator's fist, and fell on the ground, writhing like an addict in the throes of an overdose. Jikaerus rushed at the fallen adept's side, and plugged out the mecha-dendrite he had just plunged into the console out in a shower of sparks before hitting a button that shut off the relentless screaming.

'Adept !' he shouted, looking back and forth between the fallen form of Merchurion and the floating half-living shape of the Steel-Wrought within the container. The renegade tech-priest slowly began to rise, his moves erratic and trembling in the shock of whatever it was had happened. Other Fleshmasters came close, some of them aiming the weapons they always carried in the Hall – experiments had a tendency to go wrong in the worst of way – straight at the Steel-Wrought's prison, ready to shoot the moment they perceived any threat.

'Th-this is most unexpected,' stuttered the adept as he came on his feet, using the mecha-dendrites that were still intact to secure his balance.

'What in the name of Alpharius happened ?!' asked Jikaerus to himself, now looking at the console, assured that whatever had just occurred hadn't deprived the Forsaken Sons of their most important expert when it came to technological matters.

The numbers on the screens didn't make any sense. Reports came over and over, the machine receiving data inputs that it didn't have any protocols to deal with. It was as if the computing apparatus had been attacked by an hostile program that had somehow caused the hideous scream and the Techno-Adept's violent rejection, except that this attack was a pure maelstrom of chaotic code, the rambling of a madman with a keyboard that somehow managed to make sense if you only looked at a specific part of it.

Jikaerus knew much about the ways of bringing a cogitator to your will despite the opposition of its machine-spirit. However heretical the notion may have been to the Adeptus Mechanicus, the Alpha Legion had never ignored such a powerful tool for gathering information. But this … this actually _impressed _him as much as it troubled him.

'The Steel-Wrought,' he whispered, finally understanding what had happened.

Merchurion walked toward him, gesturing for the rest of the Fleshmasters to return to their own activities. They couldn't let their own experiments go too long without being checked, and their bolters couldn't do anything about that situation. It wasn't as if the subject was going to suddenly break open his restraints and attack them with his barely functioning limbs.

'What did you find out ?' asked the Techno-Adept, his robotic voice utterly robbed of the inflexions it had previously possessed by the onslaught his inner systems had just endured.

'Our dear Governor somehow found a way to send commands and actual signals through the systems monitoring his vitals and the circuits of his implants,' answered Jikaerus, shaking his head. That wasn't supposed to be possible, secret technology of the Tenth Legion or not.

'That was sooner than I expected,' said Merchurion.

The former Alpha Legionary turned toward the renegade tech-priest, stupor clear in his tone :

'What ?!'

'I knew that this would happen sooner or later. The human mind, for its many weaknesses, can be surprisingly adaptable. Given only one way to express itself, it was certain that at some point in time the subject would find a way to manipulate the only way he had of interacting with the rest of the material plane. Now, the true purpose of the experiment can begin.'

Jikaerus shook his head in amazement. He had thought the Steel-Wrought was being studied by Merchurion so that the tech-priest could obtain the secrets of the half-living body's augmentics, but it seemed there was more to the former Governor's fate.

'What is the «true purpose», then ?'

'To use the subject's great connection to the Machine in order to use a human mind as a component of one of the Omnissiah's avatars. Now, please help me repair these cogitators, Apothecary. There is one more thing we need to do before moving to actual field testing ...'

* * *

_He could see. He could feel. He could move. Things he had given up long ago, though he couldn't remember when and how that had happened, had been given back to him. It filled his heart with savage joy, but that joy was but a drop compared to the ocean of his never-ending rage. _

_Why was he so furious ? He couldn't remember. All he knew was that someone had hurt him, and had to pay for it. That was all he needed. Revenge was his purpose, destruction his goal._

_His body was taller than it had once been, a construct of metal and death-delivering weapons. His left arm ended in a chainfist combined with a twin-linked bolter, while the right one ended in a plasma launcher. Both could be moved by his thoughts, and he scanned his surroundings for enemies, eager to use this new body to crush and destroy those responsible for his torment. If only he could remember what had happened, how he had ended up in this new form … it seemed to him that this was strange, that he shouldn't be wearing that colossal armor, but his mind felt foggy and unfocused, as if something were preventing him from reaching clarity. Was this the consequence of whatever had been done to him ? Then the enemy would pay for that, too._

_He could see them, hiding behind the walls of their bunkers, thinking themselves protected from his wrath. A banner floated above the structures, marked with an eye surrounded by an eight-pointed stars. He couldn't remember what the symbol meant, but its sight infuriated him, and he started to walk toward the enemy positions._

_His speed increased as he gathered momentum, and the enemies opened fire. Their pitiful weapons failed to penetrate the bulk of his metallic body, and he impacted the first bunker like a meteor, crashing through its walls and exposing the fragile flesh hiding within. He brought his weapons to bear, and unleashed the fury of the Emperor upon them, relishing the extinction of their lights on his tactical display._

_He detected another presence behind him, approaching the line of bunkers at marching speed. His carnage complete, he turned to look at the newcomers, and saw that they bore the armor of the Astartes, and the colors of Maccrage. His tired, wounded mind recognised them as allies, and he returned his attention toward the rest of the bunkers ..._

* * *

Merchurion ended the simulation, and the Steel-Wrought returned to his slumber as the drugs injected through what little remained of his flesh started to take effect. The Techno-Adept nodded to himself, and Jikaerus could tell that he was satisfied with how his program had managed to deceive the senses of the Steel-Wrought after breaking his mind with one last concentrate of hallucinogens and electric shocks. He sent a command to the machine before him, and an image appeared on the screen. It was the image of a Dreadnought with several modifications from the standard pattern, built together from the salvaged pieces of different machines. The image rotated slowly, runes appearing to indicate each of the updates that would be needed according to the analysis of the simulation's data.

'How long have you been working of that thing ?' asked Jikaerus, with a trace of awe in his voice.

'From the moment the Awakened One brought me this specimen, I knew this was a possibility. And since no Legionary aboard the _Hand of Ruin _has expressed his will of being placed within a Dreadnought-unit should he ever become unable to wage war in a conventional manner – though I cannot understand why your kin would refuse such glorious transformation – I deduced it the most logical course of action.'

Jikaerus shivered, an action that had nothing to do with his armor heat-draining properties – the Hall of Asclepios was cold, but he had refilled his armor's energy pack before returning to its refrigerated confines. No, the shiver had been caused by the prospect of such a fate.

Being entombed in a Dreadnought had once been considered an honor in most of the Legions that had sided with the Warmaster. It was, after all, the opportunity to continue fighting even in death, to lay waste upon the Emperor's foes in the form of a titan of legend, clad in metal and death. But things had changed after Horus had declared rebellion. Jikaerus wasn't exactly certain of what had caused the general … _fear_, that was the only word, that now filled the Legionaries at the idea of becoming one with such a machine. Perhaps it was due to the fact that they no longer had the ideal and dream to which they would have once clung, having seen them as the lies they were ? Perhaps it was the fact that war was all the Astartes were, and to have it become a remote thing, felt only through the data-feed of an engine, was anathema to those who had embraced that purpose ? Perhaps it was a cruel joke played on them by the Dark Gods, who now held their fates in their hands ?

Perhaps it was because of all of these reasons, and none of them. It didn't matter. No one amongst the Forsaken Sons would be interred willingly into a Dreadnought's coffin. They would rather die than endure an eternity of battle as an undead machine.

'You were probably right,' he finally answered. 'So ? How do you think to use this ? He may have attacked these soldiers, but only because you made them wear the Warmaster's insigna. The moment we let the Steel-Wrought in control of a Dreadnought on the battlefield, he is going to turn against us.'

'I am working on a system that will twist the subject's perception of reality,' explained Merchurion. 'The machine-spirit will receive the information about its surroundings, and transmit it to its host only after it had been suitably revised.'

'Revised ?'

Servitors approached and began to disassemble the apparatus that was connected to the Steel-Wrought. With a blur of binary from Merchurion, they hastened their work, as if working under a strict time limit. Jikaerus understood : the servitors were preparing the floating brain to be transported to the Techno-Adept's private laboratory, where he would implant it into the modified Dreadnought that was waiting for its pilot. And since the former Governor depended on the machines to survive for any length of time superior to the short autonomy of his prison's independent systems, time was of the essence to ensure that the experiment wasn't lost at the final stage. The Fleshmaster could understand the feeling : he had felt the same during the last phases of his work on Mulor Secundus.

Secure in his knowledge that the Steel-Wrought was being taken care of with all due haste, Merchurion turned from his console to look directly at Jikaerus, and the Fleshmaster felt a thrill of excitement mingled with horror when the tech-priest answered his previous question :

'He will see loyalists as enemy target, his vision twisted so that they appear to carry the emblem of the Warmaster. And the units under the banner of the Forsaken Sons will be identified as loyalists troops from the Legions that have failed to see the truth of the Eightfold Omnissiah.'

For a moment, Jikaerus could only stare at Merchurion. He was glad he was still wearing his helmet : he didn't think he could have hidden his shock and horror if he had been bare-headed. The Alpha Legion was familiar with deception. They had used disguise to infiltrate loyalist positions during the war, and a squad had even managed to approach Guilliman himself, though the assassination attempt had failed. But this … this was downright _cruel_. Oh, the Astartes was aware of the hypocrisy of such an opinion : his own actions were more than enough to warrant his damnation a thousand times over. But though he had shaped the lives of tens of thousand with his work on Mulor Secundus, he had still accounted for a measure of free will in his experiment, the possibility of choice that could destroy even the best laid plans. The young taken aboard the ship would have to _choose _whether or not to become Legionaries – no amount of conditioning could give a man the force to endure the implantation procedure if he did not possess the will to do so. To force a loyal servant of the Emperor to fight other, to make him appear a traitor in the eyes of his victims …

'Fleshmaster Jikaerus ?' asked the Techno-Adept. 'Is there something wrong ?'

The Legionary shook his head. It was foolish to judge the other renegade's actions. They were all traitors now, and had already broken their most sacred vow, turned from the most important oath. They had done so in the name of many things, different for all those who had kneeled before the Warmaster's banner, but that they had all deemed important enough to deserve such a sacrifice. And if these reasons were worthy such an ultimate act, then what were the destruction of ethics and the surrender of morality in comparison ? They were traitors, renegades …

_Heretics._

The word hung heavy within Jikaerus' mind. It had been spat at him by the loyalists at Terra, as a way for the defenders of a doomed Imperium to set themselves up at the righteous in a war that had no _right _side. It was an old word, one that had been abandoned at the dawn of the Great Crusade alongside the superstitions of the past. It meant, the Legionary remembered, «anyone who does not conform to an established attitude, doctrine, or principle».

Then yes, they were heretics. They had turned from the lies of the Emperor, His so-called 'Imperial Truth' that was nothing but a blanket of ignorance and denial of the universe's dangers. The Alpha Legion had known the falsehood of that 'Truth' long before the Warmaster had risen his rebellion, but the commanders of the Legion had thought that it made the defence of Mankind easier, and that the Emperor had to have a plan that would make the Imperium secure from the threat of the Warp.

They had been wrong. There was no plan. Only the delusion of godhood of a false prophet that was ready to send humanity to its doom rather than make the necessary sacrifices. And thus, Alpharius Omegon had made his choice : to side with the Warmaster, and bring Horus Lupercal upon the Throne of Terra as the True Emperor, so that he would do what was needed for Mankind's ultimate victory.

In comparison to such a thing, to such a betrayal, no matter the reason behind it, what was the torture of one soul ? What did the fate of Valens Tarsis matter ? The answer was clear, and Jikaerus felt a great weight that he hadn't known was there lift from his shoulders as he realised that.

'It is nothing,' he answered.

* * *

...

...

See what I meant about the ratings ?

On another subject, now. The Roboutian Heresy is still in progress. I repeat my offer : if you have an idea, share it with me. I intend to do something that will at least not shame the wonderful work of Aurelius Rex, creator of the Dornian Heresy. Not that he will ever read this (and if he does, hey ! Where have you been ?), but it is matter of principle. And to do that, I need advice from fans of Warhammer 40000, capable of pointing the smallest details that can be turned into ironic dark jokes in a reverse universe.

The next chapter should be done in a week or two, as usual. If you liked this one, have constructive critics to give, or an idea to share, review ! Your commentaries are a great help to me.

Until next time,

Zahariel out.


	11. Chapter 11 : Seeds of Ruin 1 : Slaanesh

AN : And, here it is. I don't have much time right now, as I am finishing this chapter just before leaving my house for a week, so I will be quick:

This chapter is the first of four parts, called the Seeds of Ruin. Each part will be dedicated to one of the Dark Gods and tell the story of a Parecxisian citizen as he falls to the sirens of Chaos. This one is for Slaanesh, the next one will be for Nurgle, and will come out in two weeks.

Thank you all for your reviews, my apologies for the long delay, hope you will give me your advice on this one too.

By the way, the first chapter of the Roboutian Heresy is out. Check it out !

I do not own the Warhammer 40000 universe or any of its characters. They belong to Games Workshop.

* * *

**+Three hours before the Forsaken Sons' planetfall on Parecxis Beta+**

Killing his commanding officer had been easier than he had thought it would be.

Strangely, that was the only thing Alburt could think of as he watched the body of the colonel fall to the ground, dead before his face touched the floor. The excitation that had filled him in anticipation of the kill was gone, the adrenalin vanishing from his veins, replaced by a sudden fatigue. The serrated blade in the trooper's hand was covered with the blood of the man he had just killed – a man that had commanded every aspect of Alburt's existence since he had been pressed into service of the Army three years ago. It seemed to him that the old man should have died harder, that he should have struggled, perhaps even fought back. Instead, the xenos weapon had passed between his ribs and pierced his heart – a clean, precise kill the like of which Alburt had done dozens of times back in the slums of Parecxis. It wasn't special. He had expected more, but it was just like every other man he had killed. There had been no thrill to the murder, no reward from his patron for an action he hadn't undertaken before. The only difference had been the preparations that one death had required, and though he had savored the experience of plotting his superior's murder, this was still a disappointing ending.

The room was spacious – enough to make Alburt rage at the memory of how he and the rest of the troopers were packed like cattle in their dorms. In one side was the camp bed on which the colonel had slept. The former occupant of the room had once sat at his desk to work on the never-ending mass of paperwork the gestion of a regiment created. All here was standardized, just like the entire garrison of Parecxis Beta. The world-fortress had been built by the Ultramarines' engineers, and the servants of the Thirteenth Legion were nothing if not traditionnalist. The only exception was the picture hanged on one of the wall : a photography of the liberation of the system's celebration, taken many years ago when the last of the xenos on the three planets had fallen.

Commiting the murder had been almost too easy. It had taken time, but no real challenge had been presented. A key to the building stolen while its owner slept after laying with one of the cult's most talented women, a password reconstitued from having seen someone type it hundred of times from behind by using the perfect memory Slaanesh had given one of their adepts, and a knife found in the sands of this lost world then bathed in the blood of six human sacrifices to ensure the favor of the Profligate One was all it had required.

That was disappointing, but also relieving. After all, this had been the first time he had killed with the intention of committing _treachery_. The magnitude of that crime had been hammered into him by the discipline officers and the newly formed Confessors, who professed the Emperor's divinity and the heresy of all who opposed His divine rule. And yet, killing the old man hadn't been any different from killing another ganger for a scrap of bread or a pile of credits. Treachery wasn't making his soul burn with shame and remorse, nor was he consumed by the hellish flames of the Warp instantly. While _that _would have been a novel experience, no doubt about it, Alburt was quite glad to still be alive.

So the Confessors had lied about that, too. Alburt had know that what they told all the soldiers each morning, when they were gathered for inspection in the court of the garisson, was filled with lies and falsehoods, but he had still not been certain that they were wrong until that moment.

Now at last, with definite proof that the Imperium was lying, he could be sure that the decision he had made was the right one. Alburt quickly looked through the dead man's desk, and took the thing he had come to steal : the access codes to the void-shield's generator. Now, it was time to return to where Syrina and the others waited for him. As Alburt started to turn from his victim's corpse, however, a flash of inspiration struck him, and he began to carve at the skin of the dead man's forehead, painting the emblem of the Dark Prince in the colonel's blood. While he enjoyed the way the blade cut the fragile, wrinkled skin, each incision sending a new jolt of pleasure through his body as the blessings of the Dark Prince rewarded him for it, his mind went back to that day when he had made the first step on the path upon which he was now irremediably engaged …

* * *

**+Sixty-six days before the Forsaken Sons' planetfall on Parecxis Beta+**

The dream was unlike any other he had ever had before, and he had had strange dreams. He had dreamed when hungry enough that his stomach felt like it was trying to consume itself, dreamed while the latest cocktail of drugs created by the underhive's gangs ran through his veins, and dreamed while his body was struggling to heal the damage the combat drugs of the Imperial Army were causing to his organism. He was used to the nightmarish visions that narcotics caused to the human mind, and he had even dreamt under the stirring skies of a planet trapped within a Warp Storm.

But this dream was different, and no matter how many times he saw it he could never grow used of it. It was ecstasy and agony in equal mesures, and the things he saw were pure madness. Vast plains of thorn stalked by beings of perfect beauty, great crystalline palaces filled with the promise of pleasure beyond his comprehension, and fields of flowers whose aromas could kill a man or send him to paradise at a moment's whim. He saw before him a wonderful domain inhabited by creatures of nightmare, and his mind reeled at some of the sights that were offered to him – a sign that this was no ordinary dream, for what mortal mind could possibly conceive visions it couldn't bear ? There was a paradox here, and in his fugue state he spent an untold amount of time pondering it before something happened in the dreamscape that claimed his attention.

One of the creatures was approaching him. The form of the being was different in each occurrence of the dream, each of its incarnations being as beautiful as it was repellent, yet he knew somehow that it was the same being that adressed him each night. This time, it was a towering being with smooth pink skin and ragged spikes emerging from its bones. It had too many limbs and watched him with four eyes that looked like they belonged on some giant flea. It smelled like death and flowers, and when it spoke to him, its voice sent shivers through his dream body that made him want to moan and puke at the same time.

_'Alburt. Little one. You have been chosen. The Dark Prince watches you.'_

The beast lowered one of its limbs. It was a tentacle that ended in a claw the form of a scythe. Unable to move, captivated by the daemon's beauty, Alburt watched at the blade slowly touched his chest. An image appeared then in Alburt's mind, and for a few seconds he saw it just as he saw the beast before him : a giant in black and golden armor, with a horned head circled by chains painted on his chest, wielding death and destruction. Then, without warning, the beast's claw pierced his skin, twisted between his ribs and reached toward his heart …

He woke up suddenly, cowered in cold sweat. His heart was beating fast, and hormones flowed in his veins that the human body shouldn't have been able to produce. He laid still for a moment, savoring the sensation that was left to him after each of his dreamy meetings with the entity. All around him, he could hear the sound of a hundred more souls sleeping more or less peacefully – the members of the Army with whom he shared the rest-block. One hundred soldiers, one of the ten gathered from the remnants of the regiments on post in the Parecxis system when the Warp Storm had arrived and put together as a new regiment. Alburt's former regiment had been wiped out by the warp-borns – the _daemons_, as most of the troopers had come to call them – but he had survived, alongside with the colonel and a few others. Alburt and the rest of the soldiers had been integrated to one of the newly formed regiments, while the old man reassumed his position as their unflinching, merciless bastard of an overlord.

This was the sixth time Alburt had dreamed of the plain of pleasure and sufferring. Since the Warp Storm had engulfed the system, he and many others had had horrible dreams of being consumed by the creatures of the Empyrean, but as far as he knew only he had that particular one.

The image he saw when it killed him – always in a new, inventive way – was always the same. He had recognised it for what it was the first time : a warrior of the Legiones Astartes, though the color of his armor and the emblem upon it didn't belong to any of the Legions he knew of. Still, there was little doubt that the warrior was one of those who had turned against the Emperor when Warmaster Horus had called for rebellion.

Horus was dead, but those who had followed him weren't. The preachers had said that those of the Astartes who had joined the Warmaster were now exiled into some hellish realm, banished from the galaxy forever by the Emperor's might. More prosaically, the officers had interpreted what little had filtered down the great chain of communication of the Imperium and came to the conclusion that the Traitor Legions had mostly found refuge into the Warp Storm known as the Eye of Terror, in the galactic north.

The keyword was _mostly_. There were still entire fleets of the fallen Warmaster out there, and the Imperium had been slowly purging them when the Warp Storm had engulfed the Parecxis system – and, according to rumors whose denial by the officers had been so intense it gave them credit, the entire Trebedius Sector.

The officers talked about this in private, but word always found its way to the troopers. The soldiers whispered about it when they were out of their commisars' ears, fearing that the Warp Storm that had so suddenly darkened the Warp could have been caused by such a fleet.

It made sense tactically, to isolate an entire sector from the rest of the Imperium and make Warp-travel impossible within it. If the traitors were able to journey through the storm, and word from the ships in the system which had faced them said they could, then they would be able to target each system at will. Of course, just _how _the traitors could cause a Warp Storm to manifest, no one knew.

But Alburt thought he knew, now. The Warmaster had found a way to communicate with the creatures of the Warp, the kin of the one which each night summoned Alburt's … spirit ? mind ? _soul _? He wasn't really sure. Either that, or the _warp-born_ had found a way to communicate with the Horus. Alburt was certain that the daemons had the ability to create a Warp Storm, though he suspected there were conditions that had to be fulfilled for it to be possible – else the galaxy would long have merged with the Warp.

And now, they had started to communicate with Alburt. That was the first time the creature had spoken before killing him, though, and despite the rare chance of experiencing his own death several times that the dreams had brought, Alburt hoped that the message's delivery meant that they were over. His dreams before that had never been peaceful, as he had a tendency to go to sleep with things in his bloodstream that were forbidden by regulations, but even he was starting to feel the effects of sleep deprivation after waking up in sweat, in the middle of his sleep shift, so many times in a row.

He stood up from his bed, wavering on his feet like a drunk. Lowering himself on his knees, he took the bottle of distilled alcohol he had traded from some of the company's engineers, who had access to the machines that could produce the near-undrinkable but potent liquor.

Alburt sat back on his bed, and took a sip of the bottle. The moment the first swallow fell down his throat, he felt something he had never felt before outside of his nightly visits to the warp-born.

He had drunk the liquor before – often enough, in fact, for the commissars to start suspecting him of being intoxicated while reporting on duty. As artisanal alcohols went, it was cheap and reeked of oil and the other substances the machines that produced it needed to perform their initial function. But this was nothing he had ever drunk before.

Raw heat coursed through his veins as his stomach bursted with fire. Every nerve of his body simultaneously sent message of pain and pleasure. For a moment, he forgot where he was and what he was doing, and lost himself into the sensation.

Then the moment passed, and he was back to normal, with the familiar taste of the drink in his mouth. Except that the taste was now a lot fainter than it had been previously. In fact, everything he felt was dimmer, as if, in contrast to the peak of sensations he had just experienced, the rest of the universe was now lacking in color and intensity.

Without thinking, Alburt took another sip of the bottle, eager to experiment that sensation again. But this time, the only thing he felt was the burning of the alcohol down his throat, and the feeling of drunkness starting to take hold of his body. Yet even these sensations were pale, shadows of what he had felt when he had drunk for the first time since he had woken up from the strange dream.

Frustrated, Alburt hammered his fist on the border of his bed, his hand meeting the metal bordures of his couch. Pain spread across his knuckles, and then vanished, replaced by yet another burst of pleasure and pain that faded again, quicker than the one the drink had caused.

As he looked down at his bruised hand, Alburt suddenly understood : if he wanted to feel that rush again, he would have to try something new. Each stimulation only caused one burst of sensation before its novelty faded away forever. How he knew this, he couldn't tell, but he didn't really care. In a life where he could die at any moment for a variety of reasons – executed by a commissar, killed in his sleep by another soldier, torn apart from within by the Warp, shot by mistake during the training drills – any distraction to his bleak existence was welcome.

He would have to find new ways to stimulate his senses, though, but that didn't worry him. Even on a garrison world, there were still plenty of opportunities. One just had to know where to look, and Alburt knew the hidden side of the disciplined planet better than most. He would start contacting the right people at the morning gathering, in a few hours. In the meantime, he thought while leaning back on his bed, he would better try to catch a little more sleep.

He didn't dream this time.

* * *

**+Thirty-two days before the Forsaken Sons' planetfall on Parecxis Beta++**

The gathering was taking place outside of the garrison. Parecxis Beta was a world-fortress, but not even the Ultramarines had the means of converting a whole planet into a single, titanic castle. There were ways to do such a thing, but the Astartes had seen no need to call upon the Mechanicum's most ruthlessly efficient devices to shape the continents of the world. In fact, Alburt suspected, the lords of the Imperium had decided to make Parecxis Beta a garrison world only because it would have been a waste to let the few still standing fortresses built by the former xenos overlords of the system unoccupied.

To Alburt's knowledge, six such constructions remained on the surface of the barren world. Before the coming of the Imperium, the planet had been used by the xenos as something of a giant arena. The nobles of that debased race, whose name had been lost in the annals of Imperial propaganda, had raised armies of genetically altered monstrosities within the depths of their private castles, before unleashing them against each other. It had been a contest of sort, to see which one of the aliens was the most gifted, and the results had apparently hold great importance in the politics of the system's rulers.

The fortresses that hadn't been razed by orbital bombardments had been stripped bare of the mysterious devices they contained by the Adeptus Mechanicus, and the vast, empty fields of the planet had been covered in an intricate network of bases each capable of hosting a thousand men in arms. There were roads across the wilderness leading from one base to another and to the gargantuan keeps of the xenos, now headquarters of the system's military.

Thirty-four days had passed since the last dream of the warp-born and the appearance of his new condition. So far, he had managed to keep what was obviously a warp-induced mutation from the officers of his regiment. He didn't know for certain what the consequences would be if he was discovered, but he firmly believed they would involve a bolt in the head and a nameless grave. Trapped as they were in a Warp Storm, the commanders weren't about to take any chances.

While looking for more ways to feel the unforgettable sensation that each new experience brought him, Alburt had been approached by a member of the gathering and invited to take part in the next one. The man wasn't unknown to him : he was another of those who had been press-ganged into service when the troops in the system had started to rebuild their strength, at the end of the Heresy. Alburt hadn't met him before they had been put together in one of the overcrowded transports, but as far as knew, the man wasn't part of any gang with which he had had conflict across the years. He had accepted. Sneaking out of the garrison wasn't easy, and he wouldn't have been able to do it on his own, but the man had had a tunnel ready that led outside. A remnant of the xenos, he had said, and Alburt believed him – the carvings on the walls obviously weren't the work of human hands.

The gathering was taking place in a crater left by the bombardments in one of the many wars that had raged across this world. It wasn't very deep, but enough so that no one on foot could see what was happening within. Watchers were spread out, ready to give warning if someone who didn't intend to join the revelerie approached – although what good that would do, Alburt couldn't begin to guess.

He descended into the crater, looking around. There were a hundred people or so from the garrison here, drinking, smoking and indulging into whatever acts of debauchery their minds could conceive .He recognised some of them from his time as a ganger on Parecxis Alpha. Most were rank-and-file soldiers, troopers who, like him, had been forced into service. But a few were officers : three sergeants, and a captain. Most surprising of all, there even was a commissar. Reiner Stein, one of the thoughest sons of whore in the regiment, was down there, his hat put away, drinking from a bottle filled with fifty-degrees alcohol.

There was a great fire at the crater's center, made of barils of promethium that had been stolen from the garrison. Pieces of meat – the local lifeforms, considered unfit for consumtion because of the narcotic properties of their flesh – were being roasted over the flames. The smell made Alburt salivate in anticipation. It had been too long since he had had a true, real meal.

'Well,' said Alburt to his guide, a smirk on his lips, 'I think I am going to set in there just fine.'

* * *

**+Three days before the Forsaken Sons' planetfall on Parecxis Beta++**

The knife was beautiful. In the hands of the leader of the gathering, its serrated blade caught the light of the stars and shone like a little sun, a shifting radiance that was purple then blue, then black. Its pommel was a perfectly spherical black stone engraved with purple gems that formed a symbol that burned the eyes of those who looked upon it for a time, before their vision adjusted and they saw the beauty of it. The first time Alburt had seen it, it had taken three minutes before he had been able to speak again, such had been the sensation it had caused him.

They had found the knife in the desert. Ten days before, the Warp Storm above their heads had struck a portion of the land that had been unexplored since the conquest of the planet, and the ruins of something that could only be a temple had been exposed. The commanders had declared the ruins a moral threat and forbidden all units to go anywhere in a radius of fifty kilometers from it – not that it had posed any problem, since the ruin was literraly in the middle of nowhere.

Alburt and several others had had visions of the ruins in their dreams. They had seen that within it lurked a great power, the promise of things they couldn't imagine. So they had gone out in the dark, and went to find what it was that called to them.

They had seen things that looked like they belonged to the dreams Alburt had had before he had changed. In these dephts, they had discovered what it was that had stirred them from their lethargic lives and driven them to search for _more_. They had found scriptures centuries old, depicting the divinity that the xenos who had once ruled this world had worshipped, and the dark beings that served it. Alburt and the others had recognised the creatures : those were the same they had seen in their dreams, in the plain of pleasure and pain. They had discovered the tenets of the old faith, and found that it was the same they had unknowingly begun to follow since they had started to gather in the crater, against the regulations. They had slept into the ruins, and dreamt.

They had seen the truth of the galaxy : the lies of the Emperor, who had claimed there were no gods in the universe, had been exposed. They had seen the powers at work behind the fabric of reality, the Dark Gods who demanded worship and offered power and blessings in return. They knew now of the Dark Prince, the Profligate One, to whom this world had belonged since long before the False Emperor – the epithet seemed perfectly appropriate now – had set out to conquer the stars. They saw how Horus Lupercal had been illuminated to the Primordial Truth, and how he had led half his brothers and their Legions against his father, who had chosen to deprieve Mankind of its rightful place as the supreme species so that He may continue His tyrannic rule forever.

But Alburt and the others knew the truth, now. They knew that the Warp Storm was a sign of the gods, an opportunity offered to prove their value, to embrace the true path of Mankind by dedicating themselves to the powers of Chaos. Not all were able to bear these revelations : of the eleven that had entered the ruins, only six emerged, carrying with them the blade they had found at the core of the temple. They had brought it with them to the gatherings, and spread the word of the Dark Prince amongst those who attended. The teachings of the Profligate One had spread like wild fire, and the captain had arranged to cover their absence from their posts. The visions had spread, too, and now, it was time to act. They could all feel it : _something _was coming. It pulsed at the back of their minds, like the waves caused by a mighty ship's journey. The chosen of the Dark Gods were coming, and they would have to prove themselves worthy.

Five of the cultists – for that was what they were now, with the purging of the last ones who had been too afraid to walk the Path of the Primordial Truth – were kneeling before the priestess, naked above the waist. They were willingly offering their throats, ready to be killed so that the alien blade could be reawakened from its long sleep. The leader of the ceremony was one of the women who had come with Alburt to the temple, wearing a long dress of patchwork tissue whose colors would have made a human who hadn't been illuminated nauseous.

One by one, she used the blade to cut the throats of the sacrifice. Every time, as their lifeblood flowed on the soil, the victims died with a satisfied smile on their face, and the blade shone a little brighter. With each ritual murder, Alburt, who stood near the priestess, could feel the Warp's hunger growing, its desire to tear the limits of reality and invade the Materium only increasing as it was fed the lives of those who had dedicated themselves to its glory.

The five sacrifices died, yet Alburt felt that the ceremony wasn't complete. He could see that the priestess felt it too. Then, suddenly, she lurched at him, blade held high, intending to kill him to complete the ritual. With a snarl, he caught her arm as the dagger was halfway to his chest, and forcibly took the blade away from her.

His heart beat with adrenalin, his mind reeled under the pulse of the Empyrean, and he knew what he had to do. With one smooth motion, he pierced the woman's chest, and stabbed directly at her heart. They stayed fixed for a moment, looking like two lovers embracing each other, then she fell and died, the same smile on her lips as the other sacrifices. A wave of pleasure spread through Alburt's body at the sight of his victim, and he knew that the Profligate One was pleased with him.

The rest of the gathering roared their approval at his murder. Looking at them, Alburt raised high the xenos blade, basking in the crowd's adoration. The time had come, and they were ready. The blood of the unworthy would be the baptism of their new faith, and he had just the perfect target in mind.

* * *

**+Two hour and forty-two minutes before the Forsaken Sons' planetfall on Parecxis Beta+**

As Alburt marched to join up with his allies, his work on the colonel's corpse complete, alarms began to ring across the garrison. These weren't about the colonel's death : Alburt recognised the pattern as the one used to warn that a battle was ongoing in space, and that they had to prepare themselves for orbital bombardment and ground assault if the fleet failed to defeat or repel the enemy.

The rebel quickened his pace, eyes locked in front of him as if he was rushing to his post. He passed next several soldiers, who were looking panicked and rushing toward their post. After a few tense moments, wondering if he was about to be shot at each step, Alburt opened the door of the storage room where he and his complices had planned to meet.

Alburt closed the door behind him and looked at the rest of the group. There were several dozens of them. They were still wearing their Army uniforms, but if any commissar had seen them, they would have been put to jail at least.

The insigna of the Army had been ripped off all uniforms, as had been any marking of rank. The authority they may have been granted by mortal instances was meaningless in the eyes of the Dark Prince, and so they had to start as equals, even though that wasn't actually the case. Sleeves had been cut, revealing skin that was often covered in tattoos or self-inflicted scars. Piercings were spread all over their bodies, with no regard given to the possibilities of infection – a very real threat on a world like Parecxis Beta, where many commodities of life had been lost after the Warp Storm had played havoc with the machine-spirits of the bases' installations.

But the most visible mark was the fevered, impatient, _hungry_ look in the eyes of those gathered here. These were men and women who had seen beyond the pale trappings of matter that fools called reality and looked into the wonders hidden past the limits of their senses. They had embraced the teachings of the Profligate One, and they had been rewarded with such sensations that many had lost their minds or their lives, their mortal forms unable to bear the beauty of the Empyrean. Even those who had survived and retained enough of themselves as to be able to return to the bases had been changed, warped by what they had experienced. They were the chosen of the Dark Prince, and they knew it and reveled in that knowledge.

They, too, knew what the alarms meant. It meant that Alburt's visions had come true, that the demigods that served the Dark Pantheon had arrived. Soon, the ships of the fleet would be lost, and the attackers would move on to assault the system's planets.

All across the planet, troopers were running to battle stations, while the giant cannons that were able to strike even spaceships were being crewed. The orbital platform would also begin to prepare. The well-oiled machine of war was moving to accomplish its purpose : repelling and crushing the enemies of the Emperor.

Unfortunately for the false god's tyrannic Imperium, a few cogs had decided otherwise. Alburt and the men and women he was facing weren't the only cell on the planet. They didn't coordinate in any fashion but they had communicated in the past, meeting in the plains and trading what meager ressources they could scavenge from the Imperial war machine. Alburt didn't know how many of them existed, but he knew that all of them would have started to take action as soon as the alarms had reached them.

'It is time,' he said to the others. 'The Great Ones have arrived, as it was promised to us. Now, we no longer need to hide. We no longer have to restrain ourselves. My brethren, it is time to prove our devotion to the Dark Prince.'

His voice started to pitch up, and his breathing quickened as the cultists started to whisper between them. He could feel the exaltation that filled them, the savage anticipation. It filled him too, and as he kept speaking to them, he felt the familiar rush of pain and pleasure build up within him, ready to be released when his speech was over.

'The servants of the False Emperor shall fall by our blades, their lives an offerring to the Profligate One ! We shall revel in their death and pitiful struggles against the inevitable ! Let the screams of the weak and bland be the proof of our devotion ! Let our own death be a passage to His realm, where endless felicity awaits those who are faithful !'

'In the name of Slaanesh, let nothing stand in our way !'

The name bursted from his lips, seemingly conjured from the depths of his very soul. He had never heard it before, in dream or awake, but is seemed _right_, somehow. He knew that this was the name of his master, the Dark God of Pleasure and Pain that had sent His minion to Alburt to show the man the way to true freedom and joy.

The moment he spoke, the feeling that had built up within him reached its peak, and as the rest of the coven began to howl and sing their praises to the Dark Prince, the beatific sensation spread once more through Alburt's body and soul, stronger than it had ever been. A torrent of images flashed in his mind : he saw entire worlds inhabited by billions be reduced to graveyards of bone and dust to sate the thirst of a newborn god, heard the screams of despair and terror of an entire race as their excesses gave life to their own damnation, and felt the very fabric of reality tear apart forever under the pressure of Slaanesh's birth. For the briefest moment, Alburt knew how it felt to be a god …

Then the moment was gone, and he felt more empty than ever. But he knew how to feel alive again. The xenos blade in his hand, he ran out of the room, followed by the other cultists, eager to slaughter his way across the base. His uniform was still clean, unmarked : that had to change.

* * *

**+Ten minutes after the Forsaken Sons' planetfall on Parecxis Beta+**

The skies were aflame with war. The batteries that hadn't been deactivated and whose crew was still alive and loyal were shooting all they had to the invading transports. Sometimes they would get a lucky hit and send one of the slowest and most clumsy crafts crashing to the ground, but most of the time, they missed. The defences of the fortress depended too much upon the mass firing it could deploy at its full capacity in order to make sure to hit, and without it, the heavy guns were simply too slow. Add to that the sudden loss of contact with the orbital platforms, and Parecxis Beta was almost entirely defenceless against the Astartes' assault.

Alburt and the rest of the coven could hear the desperate reports from all over the planet. The forces that had remained loyal to the False Emperor were still fighting, a desperate struggle that was doomed to end in their death. Alburt did not pity them. They could have done what he had, and sided with the Great Ones, yet they had foolishly chosen to keep clinging to that false faith the priests had spread amongst them like poison. They deserved whatever fate awaited them.

One of the crafts started to move toward their position. It was one of the Thunderhawks, the transports of the Astartes. While some of the crafts that hovered in the skies were civilian transports adapted for their new purpose as troops carriers, the Space Marines only traveled on Thunderhawks, or their rarer, older counterpart, the Stormbirds.

The movements of the craft were fluid and precise, and when Alburt saw that it was piloted by a mortal, a spike of jealousy rose in his heart. To command such an engine of war and destruction, to soar the skies as a predator delivering the Angels of Death upon the battlefield … It must be magnificent. One day, he swore, he would feel that sensation too.

The bay door of the Thunderhawk opened, and several giants emerged from its depths. They moved slowly but with purpose, each of them taking position to cover the one they were sworn to protect. Once all of the bodyguards had taken position, the Astartes Alburt had seen in his dreams walked out of the craft and stopped before the cultists.

Alburt kneeled before the towering giant. The demigod was clad in what he knew to be a Terminator Armor, his head without helmet yet protected from the shots that still fled around them. Even here, the battle wasn't over yet. Still, with more and more crafts delivering their lethal payloads upon the field, it wouldn't be long before the loyal soldiers were wiped out.

But he was different. He had made his choice and helped the inevitable victory of the Great Ones, and he had been rewarded for it. Now, as the being in his dreams had promised, he would be granted the ultimate reward.

'Lord Arken,' he whispered. 'Awakened One. Lord of the Forsaken Sons. You honor us all by gracing us with your presence on this worthless world.' The shiver he felt at daring to speak in the presence of the demigod was delightful.

The giant reached with his clawed hand, and placed a deactivated talon under Alburt's chin, forcing him to raise his head. Alburt's gaze was drawn to the Astartes' eyes, as cold as the void and as unforgiving as the fires of a sun. He felt as if the giant could see through his flesh and into his very soul.

It was a new experience, and as such he had to savor it. Still, when it ended, he couldn't deny that he was glad it was over. Then Lord Arken spoke, his voice sounding like the very promise of damnation itself :

'What is your name, mortal ?'

'I … I am Alburt, Great One.'

Arken shook his head, slowly.

'That _was _your name, before you embraced the teachings of the Profligate One. But the Dark Prince is not one who would accept the man you once were in His service. You require a new name, if Slaanesh is to keep favoring you.'

'A … new name, Great One ?' asked Alburt, his voice hesitating at the unexpected order.

'Yes,' answered Arken. 'You bear His mark, after all. I can feel it. It permeates this whole planet, the echoes of a dead race carrying His whispers to all who would hear them. There are few who can receive His blessing and live for long, even amongst the Legions, but perhaps you will be able to avoid that fate. Think about it, and choose a new name quickly. _Alburt _is dead, and those who are nameless do not endure for long under the gaze of the Gods.'

The man who was no longer Alburt bowed his head even further in sign of his acceptance of the giant's command. Arken gestured toward the Thunderhawk behind him. The pilot took off, no doubt returning to orbit, where he would wait for his master to call him again. Then the Astartes commander looked at the cultists behind their nameless leader, and a twisted smile formed on his lips.

'Come, then, chosen of the Dark Gods. Let us finish the purge of this miserable fortress.'

And so the Awakened One led his bodyguards and the mortal traitors whose actions had doomed the base to battle against the forces that still hold their positions, knowing full well that they were doomed yet determined to stand until the end.

* * *

**+Thirty-two hours after the Forsaken Sons' planetfall on Parecxis Beta+**

Several ships were orbiting around Parecxis Beta : those that had been captured during the initial engagement with the system's fleet, and the one that had brought the Space Marines. It was in the latter than the man that had once been called Alburt had been brought when the transport had finally arrived to pick him and the dozen survivors of his group up.

The battle that had followed the arrival of the Awakened One on the base had been, despite the absolute absence of doubt concerning the outcome, costly. While the Terminators had been protected against the weapons gathered by the remaining loyalists, that hadn't been the case for the cultists, and the nameless man had lost most of his group to their las-guns before the last of them had been finally killed. Of course, almost all of these deaths could have been avoided if the rebels had worked with anything resembling their former discipline, but then what would have been the point of rebelling at all ? Battle was but another opportunity to experience new sensations, and if one was to meet death while communing with the Dark Prince, well, it was a worthy death.

But he hadn't been worried about that happening to him. The Awakened One had confirmed the words of the daemon : he was marked by the Profligate One, the Prince of Excess, the lord and master of the wonderful plains of Agony and Ecstasy he had seen in his dreams. He wouldn't die _yet_, and if he had his way, he would _never _die. He knew that was possible, that eternal life was a very real, if minute possibility. If he could impress his worth enough on his dark patron, then the reward would be an eternity of sensations, of enjoying all the pleasures there was to find in the galaxy – some of them he couldn't even begin to imagine for now, but which would be revealed to him as he progressed upon the path of Excess.

And now, he was about to take the next step on that glorious path. He stood naked before an open and empty sarcophagus, in what his new masters had called the Hall of Asclepios – a realm of horrors and wonders such as he had never dreamt existed in this bleak reality.

The sarcophagus was taunting the nameless man, a gateway to realms of sensations and emotions yet unknown. He didn't know what exactly the Fleshmasters would do to him – there were too many different things strapped on the tables or incubating within glass tanks filled with liquid for him to divine which of them had gone through the same process he was about to, or even if any had. The demigods who reigned in this madhouse were clearly pursuing a hundred projects at once, with failure and success not really mattering to them as long as they gained more forbidden knowledge from each of them. The only thing certain was that he would experiment many things he never had before it was over, and he almost couldn't held his impatience at the thought of how many times he would taste ecstasy before emerging again. Truly, his gift from the Dark Prince was a blessing beyond compare.

One of the lords of the Hall was attending to the machine, imputing the last data he had obtained from studying the man who had been chosen for the transformation the device could perform. The Fleshmaster was called Melakor, and had once been an Apothecary of the Emperor's Children. The nameless man could feel the touch of the Dark Prince on him, and it was stronger and purer than the one he had been granted himself. A pang of jealousy spread through him, causing yet another rush of pleasure that faded all too quickly. Envy of the Astartes was an all too common thing, and the new reason for that jealousy wasn't enough to truly stimulate him.

His work on the machine over, the Space Marine turned toward the mortal. His armor was covered in scraps of parchment covered in notes about things the nameless man didn't know and sigils that he understood all too well. There wasn't a single spot of his armor's ceramite that could be seen beneath the cover.

Melakor's face was a sight that would have reduced most mortal to a gibbering mess, and three of the nameless man's group had died of fright upon seeing him for the first time, their amplified sensations and emotions finally killing them by stopping their heart in one final impulse of pain and pleasure. It was, by any definition of the word, flayed, the muscles and nerves exposed. This would have been disturbing on its own, but the skin that had been removed was kept a few centimeters away from the flesh by wires that were either biological or technological in nature – the nameless man couldn't tell. The wires were drilling into the bone of the Astartes's skull, and one could see the small blood vessels within the skin. They were still active, keeping the flayed face 'alive', though whatever was flowing through them was too black to be blood.

As Melakor looked down upon him, the man caught a glimpse of a portion of the giant's face where skin was beginning to form again, the prodigious regenerative ability of his metabolism healing the damage he had done to himself. With a shiver, the nameless man realised that the Fleshmaster probably had to flay himself anew every few days to maintain his horrible but glorious appearance.

'It is ready, mortal. Before you go in, though, I need to know your name.'

'What do you care, Great One ?'

'Nothing. Perhaps you will live. Perhaps you will die. It is of no concern to me, for both outcomes will yield much data for the rest of us. But it is standard procedure that each of the subjects be named, so that we know which experiment we are talking about. You aren't one of the prisonners or one of those who have entirely lost their mind to the Warp – or at least you don't seem to be – so you must have a name. Give it to me.'

The nameless man paused for a second. He had thought of a name, of course – he had thought of it during all the boring, tedious, interminable ten minutes it had taken the transport craft to get them aboard the ship. He had long decided what would be the name under which his true legend would begin. It was the name of a once famous drug lord of the underworld of Parecxis Alpha, who had commanded dozens of smaller gangs for almost a century before he had finally died in an assassination that – to the surprise of all involved – none of his many enemies had claimed, not even the Adeptus Arbites. It had a long history but no remaining family, and was suitably intimidating. Besides, taking the name of the man he had killed himself after having been wronged in one of the many drug deals he had been part of would probably bring him the favor of the Dark Prince. Even back then, before he had received the gift of Slaanesh, he had enjoyed that hunt like nothing else in his life, reveling in the careful planning and infiltration that had allowed him to access the drug lord's inner quarters.

But it seemed to him that such a thing – the naming of future champion of the Prince of Excess – should have suitable drama to it. He should announce his name after emerging from the sarcophagus, reborn in a new, superior form, ready to strike down his enemies and claim ever more glory for the Profligate One.

Perhaps, though, this would be just as appropriate ? He was about to enter the sarcophagus. A new being would emerge from it. He didn't know the details of what it would do to him, but he knew it would make him stronger. It had a chance of killing him horribly, but what was life without risk ? He stood at the treshold of death and rebirth, and a new name would only reinforce the importance of that rebirth. Yes, this was a moment of great importance to his future legend.

'Your _name_, mortal.'

The traitor soldier looked at the agent of the Dark Prince that stood in front of him, and for the briefest of moments he thought he could see the endless possibilities that the being would open for him, if he was strong enough to endure whatever horrors the Fleshmaster and his colleagues were going to do to his body while he laid in the sarcophagus. It was glorious and magnificent, and it would be _his, _no matter how much he had to suffer for it. Then the moment passed, and he answered, his voice devoid of any doubt :

'My name is Mikail, Great One. Mikail Korzhanenko .'


End file.
